Modern Warfare: Revolution
by Ordnance
Summary: AU. Following the shocking events that saw them brought to the brink of oblivion, the remaining men of Task Force 141 must band together with what precious allies they have left to defeat Makarov and restore order once and for all. M for violence/language
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I don't own Call of Duty or Modern Warfare. Purely fan fiction.

Modern Warfare: Revolution

**Prologue**

**Day 6 – 16:03:35**

The U.S Army's most high-ranking officers for America's top-secret black ops chose the men of Shadow Company, a mix of handpicked soldiers and mercenaries. Their original objectives were to kill Russian terrorist leader Vladimir Makarov and his men, but soon after arrival in the boneyard their commanding officer; General Shepherd, had informed them that Task Force 141 had become traitors to the United States and that they too were to be terminated. These men knew General Shepherd well. They knew he was lying. But fiercely loyal to the end, Shadow Company would still kill whoever they were told to kill, and would do so with extreme prejudice.

The leader of the black-clad squad of three currently stalking an area of the boneyard was Captain Samuel Ashton. A former Army Ranger, Shepherd had chosen Ashton himself, after seeing his excellent leadership skills in Afghanistan. And much like the General, Ashton would always take those extra steps to do what was absolutely necessary, even if that meant killing people he knew were truly his allies. Following Ashton on his dishonorable path were Sgt. Clyde, a mysterious man, even for a shadow company solider, and Pvt. Darien, who spoke with a very strange southern accent.

"Boys, I've just got word that Price and MacTavish have acquired transport!" Bellowed Ashton. "We've gotta cut them off before they can escape! I know where we can get a vehicle! Let's move!"

The three men ran, using the carcasses of various airplanes, including a C-130, for cover along the way. There seemed to be very little resistance around this area, save for a few stragglers who were dispatched with relative ease. Visible at the top of the hill was a huge black up-armored GMC SUV, weaponized with a swiveling minigun turret.

"That's our ride!" Shouted Ashton. "Almost there, go, go, go!"

As the men charged up the hill, an American Task Force 141 operative came running out of one of the planes waving his arms in the air. He had obviously thought rescue had arrived. He was tragically mistaken. Ashton aimed his M4A1 SIR and tapped the trigger of the rifle twice, both shots striking the soldier's forehead, sending a cloud of blood, skull particles and brain matter flying out the other side, and he crumpled to the floor.

"Target down." Muttered the Captain, grimly smug with himself.

As he reached the vehicle, Ashton pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the SUV. "Right, Sergeant Clyde, man the minigun of this baby, we've got some traitors to kill."

"I don't think so Captain." replied the monotonous sergeant.

"What did you just say, solider?"

The Captain looked around, and his eyes, the only part of his face visible under his balaclava, goggles and helmet, widened when he saw the two men now had their Assault rifles aimed right at him.

"Boys, now is not the time for an attack of conscience!" ordered Ashton; hand in the air in an attempt to calm down his men. "You know why we're here!"

"You." quipped the previously silent Darien. "Give me the keys. Now!"

"Now you listen to me, Private!" Snarled Ashton. "You will obey your commanding officer! Secure the Sargent, otherwise you..."

Ashton didn't finish his sentence. Clyde tapped the trigger of his FN SCAR rifle, hitting the officer in the throat. A small stream of blood poured out of the large hole made in his balaclava as the Captain made an attempt to breath, achieving only a horrible gargling sound. Darien finished him off, shooting him twice in the head, and Ashton fell where he stood.

Clyde and Darien removed their headgear, and it was obvious that they were not who Captain Ashton thought they were. The remains of the real Sergeant Clyde and Private Darien were currently burning in a ditch on the edge of the disposal yard. Poetic justice perhaps, for the men who took part in Operation Sabotage, the traitorous killing of their Task Force allies in Russia.

"Nice shooting, Anatoly" remarked the soldier thought to be Sgt. Clyde. But he was really the extremist simply known as Viktor, Vladamir Makrov's right hand man. A few days earlier, Viktor had taken part in the terrorist attack on Moscow's Zakhaev International Airport. Even compared to Makarov, Viktor was a psychopath, running over to balconies to gun down as many innocent people as he possibly could. Viktor's Slavic looks were chiseled, his hair short and dark, and his eyes grey, and completely soulless. The back of his neck was swarmed with tattoos, a small glimpse of the mural of ink that covered his body, permanent reminders of the many years he had spent in various Russian jails.

"Thank you, Victor" came the reply from the younger, Anatoly. "Kiril and Lev would be most proud."

Anatoly was Makarov's getaway driver. The shorter, stockier, brown haired man held a reputation for his humanity amongst the inhumane, but he had joined Makarov as a true believer in the Ultranationalist ideal. Sacrifices would need to be made for the Russia he believed in to be reborn, and he was just as willing to make them as any.

He picked up the keys to the SUV from Captain Ashton's lifeless hand, and walked to the car. "Nice wheels" the Russian remarked as he opened the driver's door.

"I'm just glad your driving is better than your American accent." Murmured Viktor. He was joking, but his monotonous voice didn't show it.

Still, Anatoly chuckled. "Bad as it may be, it was no worse than Joseph Allen's Russian"

This earned a smile from Victor. "Indeed, Anatoly, indeed. Hit the gas, we've got to get Makarov out of here."


	2. Prologue Part Two

**Day 6 – 15:50:22**

Unless you knew they were there, it would have been impossible to see the two men, their ghillie suits blending them perfectly into the foliage on the hill surrounding the estate.

Task Force 141 was striking two places at once in an attempt to snuff out the threat posed by Vladimir Makarov and his men once and for all. The newly reinstated Captain Price and his former protege, 'Soap' MacTavish were to lead an ambush on a suspected arms deal in Afghanistan, while the strike team the snipers were part of were to target a Russian safehouse an informant had told them Makarov had used in the past. They were lead by the mysterious skull balaclava-wearing Simon "Ghost" Riley, of the SAS.

Twenty-six of the cream of the world's Special Forces operatives had entered the perimeter of the estate. After an intense firefight through the woodland following an ambush, and much breaching and clearing of the building, four remained. At first, it seemed their lives were given in vain, as Makarov was found not to be in the building. However, a proverbial mountain of Intel was discovered within the lodge and the computer. As Riley himself had said, the safehouse was _'a bloody goldmine.'_

That said Intel had now just finished downloading onto a DSM, and now the surviving soldiers were about to begin a near-suicidal run downhill to an LZ General Shepherd had set up. Makarov's men were going to throw everything they had at them to ensure they didn't make it back. They were already setting up their positions.

Archer, a thirty-two year old, highly experienced SAS marksman, turned to his spotter, the American operative known as Toad.

"We've got to make sure they arrive in one piece." Muttered Archer. "I know we should be heading to our own LZ, but they need our help. Are you with me?"

Toad didn't need to be asked, "Let's do this. We can use the trees near the estate for cover."

The youngest of the four soldiers currently making their escape, Sgt. Gary "Roach" Sanderson, was the one carrying the DSM. Because of this, he was the one who had to be protected at all costs. Ghost flanked him, throwing smoke grenades in an attempt to cover their escape. Covering them from a further distance were the two other Task Force survivors. The American, Scarecrow, and the Canadian, Ozone. They had become good friends over the past week, having seen too many good soldiers and friends wasted in the past few days on this operation, the two promised to always watch each other's backs.

"Scarecrow, three rounds left!" Shouted Ozone to his buddy. The earth around them rumbled as Mortar rounds pummeled their position. If they wanted to survive, they would soon have to make the run to the LZ themselves.

"Roger that! Sniper team, cover me, I'm going to make a run for it!"

"Solid Copy, Scarecrow." Replied Archer. "Good luck mate."

Scarecrow sprinted with all the energy he had left for the treeline. If he could make it, he was more or less home free, as Shepherd's Little Bird helicopters were just starting to arrive.

Archer and Toad picked off wave after wave of Russian stragglers, each trying to make Scarecrow their one last kill. Ozone was just emptying what rounds he had left into the smoke. It wasn't apparent if he was shooting at anyone in particular, but it was more likely that he was selflessly attracting attention to himself to ensure the survival of his friend.

It didn't work. Just before he reached the trees, an RPG round scored a direct hit on Scarecrows position. The explosion pretty much tore the American in half, leaving his scattered remains landing far from the crater.

"Scarecrow is down!" Archer informed the squad. He knew what would come next.

Ozone's scream could be heard from as far as Archer's position. The Canadian loaded his last magazine into the C8 Carbine, and charged towards what remained of Makarov's men. Had he kept his cool, he would have been safe. The Russians were making their retreat, as Ghost and Roach had arrived at the LZ, and popped red smoke, signaling the start of the AH-6J ground attack.

"Ozone! Stop! Shit, he's gonna get himself killed!" cried Toad, earning a sigh from Archer for stating the obvious.

"I think that's what he wants. Can't blame him."

Ozone's charge gained a lot of attention. Before he could get any distance, a round smashed his ankle, sending him tumbling to the ground.

"Ah! I'm hit! Need assist!"

"Idiot…" Archer muttered under his breath.

As Ozone tried to crawl towards cover, Archer and Toad watched as a lone, ghillie-suited Russian sniper emerged from the trees, combat knife in hand, compromising his position to greedily finish off his prey.

"Oh no you don't…" Archer whispered to himself as he aimed the sights of the Cheytec Intervention rifle at the man's head and pulled the trigger. Moments later, the .408 round tore threw the Russian's forehead, leaving him all but decapitated, and his body slumped to the floor.

"Tango down."

"Ozone, you silly bastard!" Archer bellowed down his comms. "You might just be lucky enough to live to learn to not do that again!"

"…Ozone, do you copy?"

There was no reply, but Ozone was still moving, waving his hand in Archer's direction. For whatever reason, the Americans had cut off their communications. Archer dismissed it as a temporary, if worrying glitch.

"Bugger. Comms are down"

For a few precious seconds there was silence as the Little Birds ceased their attack, and all that remained was the murmur of their rotor blades. The quiet was short lived, however, as it was cut off seconds later by the monstrous roar of the Pave Low helicopter that swooped overhead.

"That's Shepherd's chopper" Archer observed. "Looks like our boys made it! Never doubted them for a second."

"Oorah." Came the reply from Toad, giving away his USMC origins, giving Archer the thumbs up. "Looks like we're gonna be the ones to get Ozone out of here though."

"Alright, if we must. Let's go."

By the time the snipers made it to Ozone's position, the wounded soldier had already managed to prop himself against a tree, his leg now bleeding profusely.

Archer ran up to him, fist clenched. If Ozone weren't injured, he would have punched him in the face for his moment of madness. "You bloody idiot!" He fumed. "Task Force 141 don't pull things like that! How did you get selected, exactly?"

Ozone simply sighed apologetically. "What of Ghost and Roach, they make it?"

Toad smiled under his camouflage "You'll be pleased to hear they-"

The interruption came from two loud shots that rung out across the valley, from what sounded like a high-caliber pistol.

"What the hell was that?"

Archer shrugged. "Probably just enemy stragglers taking pot-shots. We're not safe here. C'mon Ozone, we've got an LZ to get to."

As the snipers lifted their wounded comrade towards the relative safety of the forest, their comms suddenly crackled into life with a terrifying message from their commanding officer.

_"Roach! Come in, this is Price! We're under attack by Shepherd's men at the boneyard! Soap! Hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, do not trust Shepherd! Soap, get down!-"_

A bewildered Archer immediately attempted to radio back.

"Price, this is Archer! Do you read me, over!"

There was no reply. Archer lost his temper and spat at his dead radio. "FUCK! What the hell is going on!"

The three men just looked at each other, and then towards the LZ, where Shepherd's Pave Low was now taking off, and a grim plume of smoke began to rise from the shore of the river. The three men seemed to speak at once.

"Oh dear god, no."


	3. Prologue Part Three

"Good Morning"

Ozone immediately sat bolt upright, as if he had awoken from a horrific nightmare. But the true events of the past day had been far worse than anything the subconscious could possibly think up.

He had passed out from his injuries over eight hours ago, shortly after Captain Price had radioed in that General Shepherd had betrayed Task Force 141. Now he had no idea where he was, and, as he turned to face the man who woke him up, no idea who he was with either.

The man was tall, his face dirty, unshaven and covered in scratches, his blonde hair short and messy. He wore a black commando sweater and a pair of ill-fitting grey and black Russian combats, all of which were heavily bloodstained. As Ozone's sight began to regain focus, he saw the soldier's sweater bore British insignia embroidered on its sleeves, and realized who the man was.

"Archer?"

Archer laughed, crossing his arms. "Yep, it's me, and I hope you still know that your name is Ozone."

Ozone breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah, that's me. Where are we?"

"You don't recognize this place?" Archer asked, still chuckling to himself.

The Canadian looked around. The log cabin, the large windows, the computers and weapons seemingly stored everywhere, and Soviet-era propaganda posters on the wall. It dawned on him immediately.

"What the fuck are we still doing here?" he spat.

"Relax!" replied Archer. "You should consider yourself a very lucky man Mister Ozone. As well as enough weapons to satisfy a small Army, Vladdy boy left a small infirmary's worth of first aid here just for you. "

"Well, that's just dandy, but you don't look so good yourself, Arch." Ozone said, pointing out the state of Archer's clothes.

The sniper looked down at his bloodstained attire and laughed again. "Don't worry about me, mate. Most of this blood is yours."

For the first time, Ozone gave a smile. "Well, that's alright then."

Archer reached out his hand and helped the Canadian to his feet. "You're lucky. That ankle is far better than it could have been. Although you could at least have told me you caught one in the shoulder as well."

"I …I did?"

At that moment, Toad came into the room, still wearing his ghillie suit and carrying his Cheytac.

"Toad, give me a sit-rep!"

"Sir, the fog out there is getting incredibly dense. Soon we won't be able to see anyone approaching until it's too late. We have to go. Right now."

"Roger that, Toad." replied Archer, picking up an L86 LSW machine gun from a nearby table, and passing Ozone an M4A1 assault rifle. "Lock and Load lads, we're Oscar Mike. Or in other words, we're fucking off."

"So where are we going, exactly?" asked Ozone.

"We found satellite phones in the building. I'm afraid we still couldn't reach Price. But I know the man; it'll take more than Shepherd and his precious little blank check to kill him. Command was still unreachable too. I did however; manage to get through to a resistance group in Georgia. It's a long shot, I know, but it might just be our ticket out of here. They said if we can cross the forest and get over the border they will try and pick us up. I'd like to believe them. Now come on, let's go."

The three men headed outside into the fog, which had now become so dense they could hardly see each other, let alone where they were going. It was a hugely eerie scene.

"This is like something out of a horror film, man." observed Toad.

"Heartbeat sensors on, boys." instructed Archer. "I'd hate to lose you at this point."

The men continued down towards the bottom of the valley, now deathly silent, and the fog becoming so thick the soldiers couldn't even see the end of their rifles, let alone each other.

Toad laughed. "Hey, Ozone, you'll never guess what I found in Makarov's bathroom."

Ozone snickered. "I know what you're talking about, buddy. I saw it too."

The joking was cut short as suddenly Toad tripped and fell to the ground with a groan. It was impossible to see where he had been walking due to the fog.

"Toad! Toad! Where are you, laddie?"

"Oh Fuck! Oh shit, no!"

"What's wrong?" Archer and Ozone ran to Toad's position, only to find what had disgusted the American. Toad was now standing, and just staring blankly at what he had tripped over.

"Oh, Jesus Christ."

Two burned bodies were lying in a pit, both incinerated beyond recognition. But all three soldiers immediately knew exactly who they were. Ozone understandably began wretching, and Archer made the sign of the cross on his chest, and sighed heavily.

"Come on lads. Let's get out of here. I've had enough of this shite"

The three men walked their way through the seemingly endless forest, the only action being false alarms when wildlife appeared on their heartbeat sensors. Then, as the fog bean to clear, a surprising sight greeted them. A huge dirt road, cutting straight through the middle of the forest.

"Well, that's not what I expected." Said Ozone, scratching his head.

"Oorah. We must be reaching the border."

Suddenly, a huge Russian Ural troop truck roared past, kicking dirt high into the air. The truck was packed with as many hired guns as it could possibly fit in the back.

"Enemy vehicles! Get down!"

Five more trucks drove past; each more packed than the next, one fitted with a particularly nasty heavy machine gun. Four UAZ jeeps followed. Then, finally, there was silence.

"Phew." Archer looked at Ozone and Toad, both looking equally surprised. "I guess it was good that we left when we did, huh?"

At that moment, the satellite phone burst into life. "This is Mashkov for Archer. You hear me?"

"Yes, that's me! Talk to me, mate!"

"We have dispatched a helicopter to the LZ you requested. You better get there soon, we won't wait forever. Mashkov out."

"Yes!" Archer turned to his men, both of them delighted. "It's not that far, let's go, come on!"

Eventually they reached the LZ. A few minutes later, an Mi-8 Helicopter appeared in the distance. It was their rescue, even though looked like it had come straight from the junkyard, which it probably had. Painted in the orange and blue colors of the Russian airline Aeroflot, faded and peeling, and the engine itself didn't sound too healthy. But it would do very nicely, thank you very much.

"You magnificent bastards!" Archer shouted, waving a flare to signal their position.

The pilot of the Mi-8 saw them, and landed. Out of the passenger door jumped a heavy-set man, in a black winter jacket, black BDUs and wearing a Ushanka fur hat. As he got closer, Archer suddenly realized he had met the man before. Many times.

"…Kamarov?"


	4. Hotel Georgia

**Tbilisi, Georgia**

The Mi-8 soared over the River Kura, gleaming a fiery orange in the sunset, with Georgia's ancient city coming into view just ahead in the valley.

"It's been a while, Kamarov!" bellowed Archer, sitting opposite the Russian Loyalist and attempting to drown out the clatter of the ancient helicopter. "To be honest, I thought you were dead."

"I am as dead as the Loyalist movement!" replied the beaming Kamarov, who was still overjoyed to see one of his old allies still alive. "Trust me, we will rise again!"

"What?"

"Never mind! We will be arriving soon anyway. If I knew it was you I was picking up, my friend, I would have sent a quieter helicopter!"

Archer just smiled back, giving Kamarov the thumbs up. It was obvious to Kamarov he hadn't heard a word he had just said, but he didn't mind.

About half an hour later, the helicopter began to slow as it reached the monotone grey concrete carcass of what appeared to be a former police station or hospital, and the female pilot of the craft turned to the men in the passenger area.

"Thirty seconds!" She yelled, but to no replies. She tried shouting again, still to no avail, as the engine of the relic of a helicopter was simply too loud for her voice to be audible. Frustrated, she shook her head, before turning to her co-pilot.

"I'm just amazed this piece of crap got us there and back Timur. We need better equipment than this."

"Roger that." The steely, monotonous Timur replied. "Good luck landing it."

The helipad of the building quickly came into view, and all on board braced themselves for the landing. While it was eventually textbook, it made no difference to those on board. As against all the odds, the three surviving members of Task Force 141's attack on Makarov's safehouse and their subsequent betrayal had escaped. For the time being, at least.

The rattle of the helicopter's antiquated engine finally died down and the rotor blades came to a standstill, all on board gave a sigh of relief as they did so. As the rear doors creaked open, Kamarov turned to Archer.

"Is there anything else you need, my friend?"

Archer nodded. "Yes. One of my men…well, this one, Ozone, is injured. I've done my best to patch him up but he needs medical attention. He's been shot four times."

Ozone, who had been sitting silent in the corner of the helicopter, seemed to come to life, and gave a shocked expression towards his commanding officer.

"Four times?"

Archer got up out of his seat, made his way towards the exit, and just smiled at Ozone.

"Well, I thought if I'd told you that you'd only been shot twice you would've been more willing to go on our little hike with us. Worked, didn't it?"

As Archer jumped free from the helicopter, Kamarov turned back to the pilot, who was busy discussing the day's events, and their new acquaintances, with Timur. She had now removed her flight helmet, revealing her typically sharp-boned Russian looks and her sincere, bright green eyes. Her jet black hair was cut short and spiky through practicality and necessity over anything aesthetic, and her flight suit, designed more with the average Slavic male in mind, draped awkwardly over her slim, athletic frame. Her appearance here was no real surprise, as given the current state of affairs, the Loyalists were more than willing to put female soldiers in the trenches, as long as their dedication towards the cause was as unbreakable as any other.

Kamarov gestured towards her. "Hey, Natasha!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get this man to ward C, immediately." He ordered, pointing to Ozone. "He requires urgent medical attention. Go!"

"Yes, yes sir, right way"

As the young woman helped Ozone to his feet and they made their way towards the entrance of the heavily guarded building, Toad poked his head out of the entrance of the helicopter gave a whistle.

"Damn. She's nice." He said. "I guess our boy's in good hands, huh?"

Kamarov gave the Marine a very disapproving scowl. "Not sure my sister would appreciate you speaking of her daughter in that way."

The look Toad had on this face after that was not visible, as his ghillie suit fortunately still kept him camouflaged. Luckily for him, Kamarov was a man of good humor, and followed up his glare with a hearty laugh.

"Do not worry, my friend! You weren't to know."

The Russian then turned to Archer, who was trying very hard not to laugh. "Anyway, Archer, you and your comrade must be wanting some food and rest. And your friend must want a change of clothes, no? That suit isn't needed so much in this urban jungle. Let's go."

Kamarov led them through the huge double doors of the former police station. On the walls were huge Russian flags, and paintings of the former Loyalist president, Roman Klossovsky. Below them sat a massive mess hall, crowded with soldiers dressed in the old loyalist black uniforms, but with no flag or insignia.

"Quite the barracks you've got here, Kamarov." Observed Archer.

"Why, thank you. We have places like this all over Eastern Europe now. It's a good thing I have some very good friends in the FSB who let it slip under the radar, and now we are already having some very successful raids. Toad, you will be pleased to hear that yesterday my men destroyed an airbase just north of St Petersburg. They stopped twenty-five troop transports that were destined for America."

"That's excellent news, sir."

"Yes"-replied Kamarov. "It is such a shame that this war ever happened. I will never know what President Vorschevsky was thinking, launching an attack on the States? Then again, he is an Ultranationalist, so he is a rabid dog, not a human. He doesn't have the same rational thoughts we do. But enough of that for now, you must be wanting some well-earned rest."

Three hours later, Archer awoke in a room that was otherwise empty, save for the Russian cook that had just walked in with a plate of beef and vegetables. It was a very basic meal, but to Archer it was like heaven on earth, even though he scoffed it down far faster than he really should have. He hadn't had a meal like it for what seemed like an eternity. Satisfied and now full of energy, Archer had some time to gather his thoughts of what had happened over these past few horrific days. He wanted answers. For that, he needed to find Toad, right now.

He stood up from the bed and made his way out of the sleeping quarters, and, as luck would have it, saw Toad exiting the toilets on the far end of the corridor, now wearing a pair of Russian combats and the green 'USMC' T-shirt he had previously been wearing under his suit. He strode towards the average-height, black-haired, and very muscular American, not making any eye contact.

As he got closer, Toad smiled at him to get his attention, to no avail. He looked surprised at not being noticed, and even more surprised as Archer suddenly grabbed the American by his collar and slammed him against the hard concrete wall.

"Right, I think there 's something you need to tell me about isn't there?" He hissed.

Toad winced, and gave a puzzled expression, staring at Archer with confused dark brown eyes. "What the hell?"

Archer spat as he shouted. "You know exactly what the hell! Shepherd!"

Toad exhaled deeply, and pointed at Archer. "Let me tell you something, Archer. I have never trusted that bastard. None of us at San Diego do, not after what happened five years ago. He sent us in knowing that warhead was armed and timing already, but instead of warning us, he just sent us in like lambs to the slaughter. Why? Because he wanted Al-Asad's corpse as his trophy, that's why. He wanted to be the big war hero and it didn't matter how many Marines, SEALS, or Rangers gave their lives for it. It's always been about him…fucking him, nobody else. He betrayed us that day. We should've guessed it would happen again."

Toad sighed as Archer loosened his grip and gave him an apologetic look. He knew he wouldn't lie to him, he just wanted to be sure.

"Sorry, mate. I hope you understand." Archer said, as he let go of the marine.

"I do. He is an American, after all. But Archer, when I signed up I swore to protect my country from all enemies, foreign, and domestic. General Shepherd, he's the domestic part of the deal. I would be just as delighted to put a bullet right between that asshole's eyes right now as you would."

Archer nodded. "I know."

Toad gave him a understanding look, and went on his way, tapping the Brit on the shoulder.

"Semper Fi." He muttered, and with that, walked down the corridor.

Archer watched as Toad walked out of his sight. He felt bad for interrogating his spotter and trusted friend like that, after all they had been though. He hoped Toad would forgive him, but it had to be done. Now, he decided he had to check on how Ozone was doing.

Archer made his way through the grim black corridors towards Ozone's ward, checking the letters above for Ward C. Before he could make it there though, a loud siren screamed throughout the building and all the Soldiers in the mess hall below rose to their feet simultaneously, grabbed their rifles and ran outside, barking orders at each other. Archer froze.

"What the bloody hell is that?" he wondered to himself.

His question was answered seconds later as one of Kamarov's men ran out of the door in front of him. "We have an unidentified helicopter approaching!" the Russian shouted in a thick accent, and passed him an AK-47. "Take this and get to the helipad! Move!"

Archer ran his way through the crowd of Russian soldiers until he found the door to the helipad. An MH-6 little bird was approaching through the night sky, and Kamarov was already waiting for it, him and his men with their rifles at the ready. Archer was worried.

"Kamarov, these helicopters are used a lot by Shepherd and his men." Archer instructed. "Prepare for contact."

"Copy that."

Instead of attacking however, the MH-6 hovered above momentarily before touching down on the helipad next to the Mi-8. Shortly afterwards, the engine cut off and a tense silence descended upon the area. Kamarov approached cautiously, his AK-47 Grenadier aimed at the cockpit of the helicopter. A silhouette of a man climbed out, his hands held high in the air. Eventually, he walked into the light. Kamarov was shocked. He knew this man.

"Nikolai?"

"Hello, Kamarov." Nikolai said, completely exhausted. "I have wounded on board. We need your help."

"Yes, of course, of course." Kamarov lowered his AK, and turned to his men. "Men, stand down, these are friendlies. Medics, get up here and take these men straight to the infirmary! Move!"

Archer could not quite believe this turn of events, but it was not quite over yet. As he reached the helicopter, an injured solider climbed out, and staggered towards him. His face was beaten and bruised, but he recognized him immediately.

"Price?"

John Price seemed to come alive at the sound of his voice, and as Archer emerged from the crowd, he froze, looking at him with bewilderment.

"Archer? Is that really you? How…in god's name are you alive?"

Archer stood still, almost reduced to tears at the sight of his Task Force commanding officer still being alive. He had no idea how it was even possible, but it was. "It's a long story, sir. I would ask the same of you, and-"

Archer suddenly stood speechless, as he caught a glimpse of Soap MacTavish, lying on a stretcher covered in cuts, blood all over him and terrifyingly pale.

Price put his hand on Archer's shoulder. "It's a longer story."


	5. Hotel Georgia, part 2

Archer was drained, both mentally and physically. All the adrenaline he had pumping through his veins from the rescue seemed to have suddenly gone completely. As he sat outside the infirmary, head in his hands, a million thoughts and questions were running through his head, each more surreal and seemingly impossible than the last. Yet everything that had happened to him, and everything that Price had told him was the truth. It now seemed anything was possible, and it was becoming more than apparent his rescue was only just the beginning.

The double doors to the infirmary opened as a medic emerged, putting his hands up against the wall opposite as he gave one long sigh of exhaustion, or possibly relief. The Russian's surgical clothing was smeared in blood, and his face covered in a layer of sweat. As the Russian removed his gloves, still propping himself up against the wall as he attempted to get his breath back, he gave a quick smile as he looked back at Archer. It spoke a thousand words.

"MacTavish will be alright." He eventually said, almost mumbling in his grizzled accent. "Price is very beaten up, but…okay. As for Nikolai, he was only suffering from dehydration. I cannot stress how lucky MacTavish was, my friend. Somehow that huge combat knife missed all his vital organs."

Archer nodded. "Good. Very good." He replied, getting to his feet and reaching out his arm to shake the medic's hand. "Well, it's more than that. I cannot thank you enough. "

The medic stood still, crossing his arms. "It's no problem." He said. "But he won't be in action for some time. All of them need a lot of rest."

"I wasn't expecting them to be." Archer replied "Go and get yourself a drink, mate. You deserve it."

The tired medic gave a knowing nod, and made his way out of the corridor.

Archer watching him leave, relieved his friends would all survive. He had seen enough of his comrades die in the past week already. Archer checked his watch. Had it really been only two hours since he had found out Price, MacTavish and Nikolai were still alive? Whatever the case, it would be best to go and tell everyone else the good news.

When he arrived what he assumed was the mess hall he was surprised to see Ozone sitting amongst the many Loyalists, fresh out of the infirmary and back in his Task Force issue T.A.D Gear hooded sweatshirt and Crye Multicam combats. He was sitting at a table with his feet up, smoking a cigarette. It would seem that the first thing the Canadian wanted to do after his brush with death was to start killing himself again, but at least he seemed in good spirits.

"Archer!" Ozone bellowed, a beaming smile on his face as he stubbed his cigarette out on the table. "Damn good to see you. I heard about some of the others making it back, good news, eh?"

Archer gave a short laugh. "Well, we needed something resembling good news eventually. I just got some from the medic too. MacTavish is going to make it."

"Well, that's excellent." Ozone replied, running one hand though his dark brown hair and using the other to pull another cigarette out of the pack, before offering one to Archer, who shook his head.

"No thanks. Good to see you getting back to your old self anyway, Ozone. You seen Toad?"

Ozone gave a shrug. "A while ago. Can't say I know where he is now."

"Well okay, I'll see you later, mate. Look after yourself."

"Sure thing buddy."

Archer left his friend to enjoy his cigarettes, and began looking around the cavernous facility for Toad. The building was even bigger and maze-like than he had previously thought, but eventually he stumbled upon a makeshift gym room. Toad was inside, doing pull-ups on a bar attached to the wall. He stopped once he noticed Archer had walked in, and made his way over to a nearby table, throwing on his t-shirt and a dark green Under Armour baseball cap.

"Good morning, sir." He said, without a hint of fatigue.

"Toad." Archer replied, leaning against the doorway. "I suppose by now you've heard about the others."

"Yeah." Toad answered, before he took a sip of water from the bottle on the table, and let out a short laugh. "I gotta say, I knew Price and MacTavish were the best, but I never knew they were quite capable of THAT."

The marine pondered for a moment. "Damn good they did though. Shepherd deserved everything he got. As did those Shadow Company assholes."

"Indeed." Archer replied, and nodded nonchalantly. "Of course, you understand I won't be able to contact Credenhill now. They'll still want Price to suffer for what he did to the ISS and those countless aircraft, whether he saved America in the process or not. You could understand them comparing his act of killing to what Shepherd has done, I guess, but he's still SAS, and I'll take the consequences alongside him. You and Ozone, you can leave any time you like, I'll understand."

Toad just replied with a stern expression, crossing his large, sculpted arms. Momentarily he looked away, staring into space as Archer wondered if his spotter really was going to leave. After all, from what he had seen on television President Vorshevsky was talking of a ceasefire, and most of America was already liberated. Chances were, if Toad walked out that door right now, he would see his loved ones within 48 hours. The spotter gave a long sigh, before turning back to face Archer. He had made his decision.

"Hell no. With all due respect sir, you are not just SAS, you are a member of Task Force 141, much like myself. We were brought together as a team for one purpose, and that was to stop Vladimir Makarov and the threat he poses. He's still out there, so we still have a job to do. I want to make sure all the good men who joined us died for a reason."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Archer said, smiling. "Somehow, we've got to finish this."

"You can start by helping us." Came a deep, heavily accented voice from the back of the gym. This came as a surprise to both Archer and Toad who had previously thought they were alone.

A man walked up to them, wearing a black sweat wicking shirt and a pair of urban camouflage combats. He was very tall, looked to be in his mid forties, with mostly grey hair, but was in incredible shape. His most distinctive feature was a huge scar, which ran right from the top of his left ear to the bottom of his chin.

"My name is Ivan Mashkov." the man informed, holding out a hand which both men shook. "Former Spetsnaz Major, and commander of the Loyalist resistance in the field."

"It's an honor to meet you, sir." Archer replied.

Mashkov looked at the two men. "So you are the Task Force snipers my men talked about. I must say, your exploits sound most impressive."

"Thank you, sir."

"From what you were talking about it seems you want to rejoin the fight. Well, I have something you can do. Tomorrow my men will attack an Air Force base forty miles northwest of Vladivostok. This will be by far the most important mission we have undertaken yet."

"Okay" said Archer "What's the objective, destroying aircraft?"

"Da, but Vorshevsky has grounded his Air Force for the time being. Our main objective is much more important. I have received some very interesting information from my friend in the FSB. Are you aware of who Andrei Kosygin is?"

"The Russian defense minister?"

Mashkov gave a wry smile. "Yes. He also happens to be the man who betrayed Klossovsky during the coup. It just so happens that he will be inspecting that very airfield at the time we attack it. Much as I would like to, we are not going to kill him. Just have a nice talk. What do you think, sound fun?"

Toad gave a nod. "I want in."

"Me too."

"Very well. Meet me at the armory at 0500 hours."


	6. Questionable Measures

Author's Note: A long chapter this one, but it's action! Hope you are enjoying it, and thank you so much for the reviews so far, I always read them and use them to try and help improve what is my first story.

* * *

Dawn was breaking over the dense pine forest, the path to the airbase only just visible under the thick layer of snow. Mashkov's vehicles could still be heard, now only as a distant metallic hum in the distance.

Defense Minister Kosygin would be expecting the police convoy, but after the Loyalist ambush they now carried a very different set of passengers. Archer and Toad had been dropped off a few miles back, and were to regroup with the Loyalists once they had scouted the base and captured Kosygin. The snipers had been supplied Russian-issue winter camouflage trousers and webbing. Archer still wore his SAS pullover, Toad a fur-lined jacket. A ghillie suit wouldn't be necessary here, as most of the mission would take place within the base.

Toad readied his snow-camouflaged M24, a weapon he had vast experience with and had been delighted to find in the armory. "Should be a patrol coming up around here soon." He whispered, checking the rifle's heartbeat sensor for any blips.

"Copy that." Archer replied. "Let's keep moving, and stay out of sight."

The snipers had walked about fifty meters when they came across fresh footprints in the snow, still embossed with the pattern of the boots. Archer gestured for Toad to hang back as he crept forward to inspect them.

"Looks like we've just missed the patrol." He informed. "Four of them at least, and a couple of dogs judging by these tracks. They are heading to our west. Move up."

The two men walked in silence for another few hundred meters, until both simultaneously noticed the two Ultranationalists who went strolling up the dirt patch ahead. They had flashlights, but neither seemed to have their eye on the job, and as Archer and Toad got closer, they could hear the Russians chatting to each other and see them chain-smoking cigarettes.

"Contact." Archer stated. "You know the drill, mate."

"Oorah." Replied Toad, already slowing his breathing, looking at his target through the scope. "The usual order, sir? I take the one of the left, you the right?"

"Oh yes."

The guards never saw, nor heard what killed them. There was nothing more than a quiet whoosh as the snipers fired their rifles, followed by a dull thud as the rounds struck both the Ultranationalists simultaneously in the back of the head, spraying the snow ahead of them red with blood as they collapsed to the ground, cigarettes still in hand.

"Textbook." Archer complimented.

"Thank you, sir. Good to see we're not getting rusty." Toad darkly joked, giving Archer a smile.

"Let's move."

The snipers made their way towards the perimeter of the base. Eventually they saw a green illuminated road sign, reading_`Welcome to Victor Imranovich Zakhaev Air Force Base'._ It was freshly painted, as the Ultranationalists had renamed it in honor of their former leader Imran Zakhaev's deceased son, and former Ultranationalist army commander.

It didn't take them long to see more movement as they reached the icy main road. This time it was two men, possibly more out of sight, guarding a small post at the perimeter. Archer and Toad would have to leave these guys, though, as they were in full view of the base. Any eagle-eyed Russian watching that guard post would be able to see their bodies and raise the alarm. Mashkov's men would just have to deal with it themselves.

Archer then observed a small wooden outhouse that overlooked the base on the ridge to the left of them, but out of sight of any Russians in the base itself. It would be just perfect. Now all they had to do was make it there, find Kosygin's position, and make it into the base without there being a welcoming party waiting for them. Easier said than done.

Eventually they made it to the snow-covered outhouse, thankfully without there being any more patrols to deal with on the way there. As they got closer they could hear the muffled sound of voices from inside. Toad checked his heartbeat sensor. Two blips.

"Sir, two tangos at least within the building, could be more."

"Roger that, Toad." Archer replied, as he carefully looked around the building for the best entry point. The front door was made of heavy-duty looking wood and looked recently replaced. The back door, however, was very flimsy and rotten looking, with a very rusty lock. A well-aimed kick would open it easily.

Archer tapped Toad on the shoulder, and pointed to the door. "Get ready to breach." He whispered, upholstering a black silenced USP .45 pistol.

With Archer standing next to him, Toad took a deep breath. With the men inside the outhouse still chatting, he aimed a kick at the door.

It only needed one attempt. The rotten wood around the lock splintering as the door flew open with a bang, and the two guards, caught completely by surprise, tried to reach for their sidearms, but were stopped short by two well-aimed shots to the head from Archer's USP.

"Clear!" Archer informed, as he pushed a lifeless guard off the table. "Toad, you watch that door, I'll try and find Kosygin."

Archer pulled a Polaroid photograph of the defense minister that Kamarov had given him out of his jacket pocket. Andrei Kosygin was middle-aged, around six foot two, and overweight. His most distinctive features were a neat black goatee beard, a small scar on his left cheek, and severely balding hair which he attempted to style into a comb-over.

Archer looked through his binoculars at the airbase. The control tower stood out as it was by far the most guarded building. As he zoomed in, alongside the usual traffic control officers were men who wore suits, body armor and carried sub-machine guns. These just had to be Kosygin's personal bodyguards.

It took about five minutes before another, larger man walked into the dome. At first he had his back turned to Archer, but then he turned around and Archer saw the goatee, the scar and the combover. He didn't need to check again.

"Target acquired." he informed into the comms. "Mashkov, Kamarov, what's your status?"

"Approaching the base." Replied Kamarov. "We will be there soon. E.T.A two minutes."

"Roger that."

Eventually, the convoy of rusty, aging VAZ 2102 police cars trundled up to the gates at the opposite end of the base. The Russians guards the snipers had left alone earlier came walking up to them. It seemed like just another at the office.

"Kamarov, we're going to need a distraction so we can get into that control tower, over."

"Solid Copy, Archer. No problem."

The driver to the first car began arguing with the guard. What it was about, Archer didn't need to know, but it was working. Eventually, the guard lost his temper, and ordered into his radio for backup. Right on cue, the two guards at the entrance closest to Archer left their position, and two minutes later, the guard to the control tower joined them. It was now time to move.

Archer turned to Toad. "We've got a thirty second window. LET'S GO!"

The snipers charged out of the outhouse before sliding down the icy slope that led to the entrance to the base. Checking they hadn't been spotted as they got to their feet, both readied their suppressed M4A1 rifles and made a dart for the control tower. As they arrived they realized they had made it without being detected, and gave a quiet sigh of relief. Archer gave an approving nod at Toad, before quickly glancing round the doorway to check the ground floor. Only one of Kosygin's goons was there, and Mashkov's men were distracting him.

"Tango by the stairs." Archer whispered, as he unsheathed a massive knife. "He's mine."

Kosygin's bodyguard watched on inquisitively as the tensions outside between the police and the base guards began to spiral out of control. It appeared the piece of shit car at the head of the convoy had broken down, and the officer wanted the guards to help him get it going again, but they were refusing. The bodyguard's years of service sensed a possible trap, and he instinctively put his hand on his holster, just in case. Suddenly, he felt a unnerving presence right behind him, and his body tensed as all the hairs on his neck stood up.

Just as he was about to turn around and face it, Archer slammed one hand over the guard's mouth, using the other to slice open his throat with his combat knife. Archer held his body in place until he finally stopped moving, before checking the stairway for movement. He had been silent; the men upstairs hadn't heard a thing.

Archer placed the corpse down quietly, before gesturing at Toad to move up. As he joined him, they could hear Kosygin above them, laughing at something one of the guards had said. It was now or never.

"Mashkov, we are in position. Go Loud." He ordered into the comms.

A pause.

"Roger that."

The atmosphere around them seemed to burn with the sudden roar of gunfire and explosions. The Loyalists had brought some serious firepower along with them.

Straight away, a suited bodyguard came bolting out onto the top of the stairway. Toad immediately fired a burst, the M4 round hitting the guard straight in the face, painting the wall behind him red with blood and brain matter. His lifeless body was then sent tumbling down the stairs, hitting the floor with a crack as a crimson pool of blood appeared.

"Tango down."

Archer picked up the guard's weapon, an H&K G36C, still with full ammo, and smiled to himself, looking almost nostalgic.

"An old friend of mine used to swear by these." He muttered, before pulling a flashbang out of his pocket, nodding towards Toad, who in turn nodded back. He ripped the pin out, throwing it upstairs. It bounced off the walls, ending up on the landing area. A shout came first, then the boom.

Archer and Toad charged up the stairs, to find two of Kosygin's guards in the landing area, blood running from their ears and suffering temporary blindness. They were waving their sub-machineguns wildly in the air, far more likely to shoot each other than their targets in their disorientated state. Archer and Toad fired first, and the guards crumpled to the ground as the hot lead seared through their flesh and bone.

"He's down."

"Target eliminated."

Toad would be the one to throw the next flashbang, through the doorway leading into the dome of the control tower. This doorway happened to be the only exit. Kosygin was now all but theirs.

There was another shout, and another boom from the grenade. As the doorway was small, Archer would go first. The last of the Kosygin's guards was wildly blind-firing his MP5, this time dangerously close to Archer's position. One press down on the trigger of the G36C ended that, however. There was a flash of red as the guard fell where he stood.

Archer's attention was then turned to the hapless traffic control officers who were now staring at him. Were they armed? Archer wasn't going to find out the hard way, and immediately fired three bursts, and the three officers crumpled over their now-bloodstained computer keyboards. lowering his rifle, Archer looked around the room for Kosygin, before staring back at Toad, bemused.

Suddenly, the defense minister darted out from underneath a desk, using surprising agility for a man of his age and weight. He already had a wooden stool in his hands, which he smashed into Archer's face, sending the sniper flying in a cloud of splinters across almost the entire floor.

With the lightning fast movement obviously of an ex-military man, Kosygin whipped a Soviet TT-33 pistol out of his holster, and would have killed Archer had Toad not been faster.

The marine grabbed Kosygin's armed wrist with one hand, using the other arm to hold the defense minister's neck in a lock. But the Russian wasn't giving in that easily, and began wildly firing the antique weapon at the floor, sending shrapnel flying high into the air. Archer had to quickly regain his wits to scramble out of the way..

"Drop it, for fuck's sake!" Toad snarled, tightening his grip on the Russian before slamming his wrist so hard down on a table the TT-33 fired one final time, and was sent flying across the room, with much of the skin of Kosygin's hand still attached.

Toad had had enough of the squirming Russian, who was still trying to put up a fight even without his pistol. He pushed Kosygin away, and when he turned back to face Toad, the American was greeted by the absurd sight of an aging politician, staring straight at him, red with anger and his fists clenched. Toad immediately knocked him out with a punch that landed right on Kosygin's nose with a satisfying crack, and the target finally collapsed to the floor in a heap.

A dazed Archer put his hands down onto the table and breathed one long sigh of relief.

"Thanks, mate."

Toad gave a short, exhausted laugh. "My pleasure."

* * *

When Andrei Kosygin finally came round, he found that he was still in the dome of the air traffic control tower, but he was now tied to a chair, and surrounded by loyalist soldiers.

"I don't know what you are doing here!" The minister spat, choking as he gave a gravelly laugh. "If you loyalist fuckheads think I am telling you anything, you are very much mistaken!"

"Oh, I don't think that will be the case." replied a new, well-educated sounding voice, as a tall, dark haired man in a Loyalist uniform walked in. He looked like any other solider, but Archer recognized him from paintings in the loyalist safehouse. This man was former president, Roman Klossovsky. This was confirmed as all the loyalists in the room saluted as he walked in.

"At ease, gentlemen, this isn't a parade." muttered Klossovsky, before giving Kosygin a damning scowl, his face turning red with anger. "Hello...Andrei."

Kosygin gave a sarcastic smile. "Hello, Roman. Old friend."

"I am not going to ask why you betrayed me, Andrei." Klossovsky said, as he knelt in front of his former friend, staring directly into his bloodshot blue eyes. "But what I must know is this. Why tamper with the intelligence on the attack on Moscow airport to justify the invasion? It was suicide. Your entire army lies dead in foreign fields? Why?"

"FUCK YOU!" the Russian bellowed as he spat in his interrogator's face.

Klossovsky lost his temper at the thought of his slain countrymen, and slapped the defense minister hard across his broken nose, letting loose a stream of blood down Kosygin's face. The ultranationalist responded by laughing deliriously, and as he laughed, Klossovsky took the opportunity to slam a gag into his open mouth.

The former president looked over at Kamarov, who had now started to spark one of the batteries from the police cars. Klossovsky shook his head.

"No, no, no. We need something a bit better than that." He muttered, and began searching around the room.

Eventually he found what he was looking for, and smashed a glass emergency case in the corner. He then pulled out a huge, bright red fire axe.

A smile crept onto his face as he saw the defense minister's eyes begin to widen, his body start to squirm and sweat start forming on his brow.

Klossovsky started by ramming the handle of the axe into Kosygin's podgy stomach. The first time he did it, Kosygin started whimpering. The second time, and he started screaming under the gag.

The former president laughed sadistically, scraping the blade of the axe along the floor, before nodding to a particularly burly Loyalist, who grabbed the minister's writhing right arm, slamming his hand down hard onto the metal table. Then, he looked over towards Archer and Toad.

"Gentlemen, we may be some time."


	7. Counter Measures

"It's over."

Kamarov quietly walked into the canteen, removing his ushanka and combat jacket, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

For the hugely experienced soldier, who had seen the full horrors of the six-day war first hand, he looked visibly shocked at what must have occurred during the interrogation.

Archer and Toad had decided to leave the room once Klossovsky had decided an axe was the best method of getting the right answers out of Kosygin. Both men had participated in some seriously brutal interrogations in their time, but nothing quite this sadistic. Professional killers they may be, but they had their limits.

"Maybe next time I'll bring a vice." Toad sarcastically suggested. "You can do your tortures _Casino _style_. _You might get a kick out of that."

There was a long, awkward pause. Kamarov showed no reaction as he picked a glass tumbler off of the draining board and helped himself to a drink before looking back at Toad.

"I am surprised you say this." The Russian replied coldly, taking another sip. "This is the very man who doctored evidence on the Moscow attack, removing all traces of Makarov's participation. Because of him, hundreds of thousands of your people are dead, men, women and children. Would you really rather we took the soft approach?"

The American sat forward in the chair, his head in his hands. It was obvious he was agreeing. "So, you get anything interesting out of our esteemed guest?"

Kamarov nodded. "Enough. Most importantly for you, he has told us that Makarov has escaped Afghanistan and is now hiding out somewhere in North Africa. We also have the locations of Vorschevsky's safehouses, as well as most of the locations of future attacks on America."

"So much for the ceasefire…" Archer said, standing up from his chair. He looked out of the window as the aircrew prepared a camouflaged Mi-8 Hip transport helicopter on the heavily bombarded runway. "I hope our ride out of here is ready, Kamarov. The Ultranationalists might just be wanting their defense minister back and I don't to be here when they show up."

"Timur, what's the status on that helicopter?" Kamarov curtly asked into the comms. "I need that thing in the air five minutes ago."

"Almost ready, sir." Came the immediate reply. "Two minutes maximum."

Archer crossed his arms, a rather unnerved look on his face. The loyalists had interrogated Kosygin far longer than he had expected them to, each minute bringing them closer to having the enemy knock on their door. Thankfully, Mashkov had commandeered the radar systems, so they should at least be able to see the Ultranationalists coming, although escaping them would be a different situation altogether.

Eventually, the comms crackled. "It's ready!" Timur informed, for once almost sounding excited with the prospect of flying something that wasn't a complete deathtrap.

"Good." Kamarov replied, putting his hat back on and picking up his AK-47. "All right, you heard him. Get your equipment together and let's get the hell out of this place."

"What about Kosygin?" Archer asked.

Kamarov gave a smile. "When the Ultranationalists find out how much he's told us, he'll have wished we killed him. They will gut him alive."

Toad nodded, a slight grin appearing. "Works for me."

As the three stepped out of the darkness, they passed Natasha, who was leaning against the wall with her helmet in one hand, a cigarette in the other and a Kalashnikov slung over her back.

Archer couldn't help but be a little surprised that she had participated in the main assault on the base, but then again Kamarov didn't come across as the overprotective type. As they walked past, she glanced in their direction.

"Afternoon, boys." She said, her face showing the slight signs of nervousness her confident voice was hiding. "I'll be your pilot for today. Again."

"Good to see you." Toad replied, with a reassuring smile. Suddenly the American froze, all of the emotion draining out of him, and he raised his hand to order silence.

"Anyone else hear that?"

As the four paused to listen, a faint rumble descended on the airbase, before very rapidly building up into a deafening roar.

Three sleek silhouettes appeared on the horizon, darting across the valley so low it would seem they were almost touching the ground. These high-tech aircraft were Sukhoi T-50 multi-role fighter jets, the pride of the Russian Air Force. They had slipped through the base radar due to their low altitude and hugely advanced stealth technology.

Kamarov immediately turned to the airstrip, waving his arms in the direction of the Mi-8. "Enemy fast movers incoming! Everyone get away from the runway, right now!" he bellowed into the comms. But it was too late, and they all knew it.

The T-50 pilots had already fired their air-to-ground missiles, the first of which streaked across the runway, scoring a direct hit on the refueling truck next to the helicopter. The explosion was immense, vaporizing the truck and ripping the fuselage of the Mi-8 to shreds, sending a massive fireball high into the sky. Timur and his ground crew, who were desperately running to escape, were sent tumbling through the air, their burning, dismembered bodies landing hundreds of meters from their previous positions.

As the fighter jets made another pass, a huge barrage of missiles and machine gun tracer ripped through the remaining aircraft on the airstrip, the explosions sending their fuselages burning high into the air before the twisted metal wreckages slammed into the ground with a deafening crash.

As the survivors ran for cover, the final missile struck the dome of the air traffic control tower with one gargantuan, final explosion. The impact caused the glass dome to shatter in a way that was almost grimly beautiful as the middle section collapsed downwards, sending a huge plume of smoke rising. The explosion had sent Toad flying backwards, grabbing helplessly through the air, before landing with a sickening crack on the snow covered runway. As he desperately tried to stay conscious, he saw the enemy jets race overhead, nothing more than three short, grey blurs. Then there was blackness.

* * *

Toad wearily opened his eyes and realized he was still alive, for now at least. His sight was still somewhat blurry, but his eyes still widened as he saw the outlines of wave after wave of Ultranationalist soldiers bursting from the treeline, spreading a huge amount of gunfire across the entire base.

"Toad! Come on, on your feet!" came a cry. It was the pilot, Natasha.

Seconds later he felt her hands grab hold of the back of his assault vest and struggle to lift the marine to his feet. As Toad felt himself begin to regain his balance, he turned to face the Natasha. Her flight-suit was torn and bloodstained, and a shard of glass was embedded in her left cheek, a trickle of blood running down from the wound. She seemed to be ignoring it, running on pure adrenaline, struggling to breathe as she dragged Toad to cover.

"You all right?" she yelled, staring at Toad as he finally regained all his senses.

"Yeah." Toad groaned. "Never better."

Natasha gave a quick smile. She had been carrying the M4A1 the American had dropped, and reunited him with it by unceremoniously slamming the rifle into his empty hands.

"There you go." She quipped. "Your friends are all okay. We've got to regroup with them at the south hangar to protect Klossovsky."

Toad nodded. "Alright. As for Kosygin?"

"Oh, he won't be joining us." Natasha informed, pointing out the destroyed control tower where the defense minister had remained tied up. "I guess the Ultras considered him expendable."

Toad gave a wry smile. "So be it. Let's go."

The south hangar was only a few paces from where he was, but with the amount of firepower the Ultranationalists were laying down on his position it seemed like miles away. He watched as Natasha locked and loaded her AK74U, quickly glancing round at her target. At least she seemed to know what she was doing.

"So, you been in many situations like this?" Toad asked.

"I bet you say that to all the girls." Natasha replied, smirking. "I've been in a few combat situations, yes, but normally supporting from the air. Still, variety is the spice of life, I guess."

As Natasha looked around again, a sniper round slammed into the wall, only inches above her head, sending a cloud of brick dust particles in every direction. She darted back to cover, almost tripping as she gripped onto her AK for dear life, trying to catch her breath.

Toad couldn't help but give a short laugh. "Indeed, the spice of life it is."

Natasha scowled. "I think we should at least fucking _try _and rejoin the others, don't you?"

"Sure thing." Toad replied, gesturing for Natasha to move. "Ladies first."

Natasha took a deep breath as she appeared to be psyching herself up. She made her charge for the hangar, her speed catching Toad somewhat off guard, but he followed soon after. Not knowing if his injured legs could even carry him as far as he needed to go. It was highly likely he wouldn't survive today even if he made it.

The gunfire came from everywhere, rounds racing over their heads and slamming into the ground around them. As they both neared the hangar, it was obvious the rest of the Loyalists had spotted them, as they had run outside to give covering fire. By now Natasha had reached the hangar, Kamarov grabbing her by the arm and throwing her to safety.

Toad felt a harsh burning sensation as a round grazed his leg, but threw himself towards the entrance of the building, and even though he winced as he landed on his wound, he had made it. Toad looked up to see Archer holding out a hand to help him to his feet.

"Damn good to see you, sir."

"Likewise." Archer replied.

Archer didn't have any time to smile back. "We're all here, now what?" he frantically asked the Loyalists.

An exhausted Mashkov turned to face him. "Archer, it is a big ask, but we've got to concentrate all our fire on those-"

The Russian commander didn't finish. A sniper round struck him in the middle of his neck, spraying Archer with a fountain of blood. The former Spetsnaz major took one last step forwards, before crumpling to the ground.

"Mashkov!" Kamarov screamed. "We have a man down! Man down! Get a medic over here immediately!"

One of the Loyalist medics broke from cover to make a run for Mashkov, only for he too to be stuck by a sniper, this time in the chest. The young soldier was thrown backwards by the force of the shot, landing next to Toad with a surprised expression on his lifeless face. His attempt would be in vain anyway, as Mashkov was already dead.

"Shit! We have another man down! Where are the rest of our medics?" Kamarov wailed.

"Dead, sir! " Came the grim rely from a Loyalist.

Just as it seemed the situation couldn't get more hopeless for the small band of soldiers, there was a piercing metallic roar as an Mi-28 Havoc made a pass overhead. This was one of the very attack helicopters the Ultranationalists had been using as their weapon of choice for ripping apart the cities of America during the invasion, and you could see why. Fitted with a chin-mounted 30mm cannon and four rocket pods fitted to its hardpoints, the Havoc had more than enough firepower to completely rip the hangar from it's very foundations, and that was exactly what the pilots had been ordered to do. The vicious-looking helicopter turned to face them, slowing down, edging closer and closer, taunting its victims. The Ultranationalist pilots obviously wanted to stare their quarry right in the face; to them it was like shooting fish in a barrel. The Havoc edged forward, slowly raising its tail in the air, like a predatory beast ready to strike its prey.

Then it exploded.

The carcass of the Havoc spiraled through the air, as if it wanted one last chance to kill its target, before slamming hard into the ground, sending flaming debris flying over the hangar.

What had shot down the helicopter was now obvious, as three unmarked Mi-24 Hinds were now circling the airbase, two of which were now unleashing a hail of fire on the Ultranationalist soldiers. The third chopper was now coming down to land nearby. Whoever the Loyalist's saviors were, they were now about to find out. As the Hind touched down, the rear door opened and the crew chief waved for the soldiers to get in.

Archer would be the first to make it to the helicopter, and was speechless with surprise when he found the crew chief to be a very familiar face.

"Get on board, everyone!" Captain Price ordered. "We are leaving!"


	8. God, Nation, King

_Two days later._

Night was descending upon the ancient medina quarter of the beautiful city of Marrakesh.

Like many cities on the great continent, the red city was one torn between the traditionalism of the past and the advances of the modern world. You could meet a trader whose family had been working on the same Souk market for hundreds of generations; yet take a short walk to the nearest Burger Town. None of this was of any thought, however, to the four men currently making their way through the crowded markets, the warm, inviting salmon tones of the buildings around them hiding their sinister intentions.

Only one of the men had his face visible, the others masked by the dark red keffiyeh scarves wrapped around their faces. The scarves only showed their eyes, each colder and more soulless than the next.

The unmasked man was Saffir, a local, and the man responsible for these men being in Morocco in the first place. He had been paid a vast sum of money to ensure they made it off a boat from an undisclosed country without being noticed, and was now to take them to a location on the outskirts of the medina quarter. A typical day for Saffir involved him smuggling some petty European criminal desperate to escape their crimes out of Spain, so he though today was going to be no different.

He was wrong. These men were very different. They had paid a lot more than the usual thieves, murderers and wannabe terrorists, but Saffir was already beginning to regret his decision to help.

The only one who had spoken had the most unnerving eyes he had ever seen, one of which was ice blue, the other a strange tone of light green. Anyone could explain the man's condition to be the somewhat common _Heterochomia Iridium_, but it still added to the his already sinister demeanor. This wasn't helped by his voice, a heavy Russian accent. The Russian's tone was actually very high-pitched, light in an almost effeminate way, but so monotonous and dark it made Saffir's body shiver with unbridled fear every time he spoke.

This man was pure evil, no doubt about it.

Saffir unlocked the doors to his car, a very old and dusty red Peugeot 504 sedan, and the four men got in. These reliable French cars had been the backbone of Africa for decades. Originally built in France in 1969; the 504 had stayed in production on the continent until only a few years ago and were still hugely common there due to their sheer numbers and huge availability of parts. Saffir was by no means a rich man, so this was the best car he could afford.

A few minutes later, the old sedan rattled up to a doorway at a somewhat nondescript building. Two small torches, like every other house on the street, lit the entrance. Knowing they had arrived, the three passengers began to take their disguises off. The man sitting next to him was the one with the _heterochromia_, and as he removed his Kaffiyeh, Saffir audibly gasped. Now he knew why his consciousness had made him so terrified. His passenger was the man whose face graced the front pages of every newspaper on every continent. Vladimir Makarov.

Makarov gave Saffir a cold stare, before picking up a battered brown suitcase from the floor of the car, which slammed into the lap of the Moroccan.

"Take this case, and give me the keys to the car." He ordered, emotionless. The Russian then produced a silenced Yarygin PYa pistol from his holster, prodding the gun into Saffir's temple. "You have thirty seconds to get off this street before I kill you."

Saffir did exactly as he was told, and moments later, disappeared into the night. As they got out of the Peugeot, Makarov's right hand man, known only as Viktor, gave his superior a surprised look. Makarov was not the type of man to spare lives, and even less a man of his word.

"Are you sure that was wise?" Viktor asked, "keeping a witness alive?"

"I did not consider it necessary." Makarov replied. "Any other day, of course. But right now I am having too many thoughts to have them interrupted by killing. Please, do not doubt me, Viktor…"

"Sir, I didn't-"

Makarov immediately interrupted Viktor by holding his leather-gloved hand up to his assistant's face, ordering silence.

"Please Viktor, shut up. I don't want to be the one who has to make you do so."

Emotion returned to the usually icy Viktor. If there was one man on this planet to unnerve him, it was Makarov. Viktor took two steps towards the heavy wooden door, deeply exhaled, and knocked three times. There was a short pause, and then a man appeared at the door. He was Spanish-looking, wearing a white t-shirt, jeans and a green baseball cap. Although he had arrived at the safehouse a lot earlier, he was in a far worse state than anyone else. He was extremely gaunt, and his skin heavily scarred and scratched.

"You made it." The man said, removing his cap and bowing.

"Rojas." Replied Anatoly, the third man. "Good to see you made it as well."

"Makarov…" Alejandro Rojas murmured, taking a deep breath. He was very worried how these men would react to what he was about to say. "There is a man here to see you."

Makarov didn't give a reply. He immediately darted towards Rojas, upholstering his Yarygin while grabbing the arms dealer by the collar of his shirt, slamming him hard against the wall. All three men entered the room, Anatoly carefully closing the front door behind him.

"I guess the torture has destroyed your mind!" Makarov barked. "I specifically told you to allow nobody in this house! It was one simple order, Alex!"

"Please, listen to me." Rojas begged, his entire body trembling. "When you see who I am talking about, you will understand!"

"Very well." Makarov said, his eyes narrowing as he lowered his pistol. "This better be good..."

Makarov quickly walked into the living room to find a man sitting at a small, ornate table. As he turned to face him, Vladimir's mouth dropped. As Makarov was the man to bring emotion to Viktor, the man sitting at the table was the man to bring emotion to Makarov.

"Roman Klossovsky!" Makarov spat, instinctively aiming his pistol right at the former president's head, along with his two associates. "Give me one good reason-"

"Take a seat, Vladimir." Klossovsky interrupted, no hint of fear or emotion in his voice despite the world's most dangerous man having a gun pointing at his face.

Makarov looked bemused at Klossovsky's reaction, but did was he was asked, and still with his Yarygin carefully aimed, sat down.

"I want you to listen to me, Vladimir." Klossovsky said, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it. "Would you like one?"

Makarov gave the former president a cold look. "Just say what you have to say, I have no patience for people like you."

Klossovsky laughed at Makarov's threat, which seemed to slightly unnerve the Ultranationalist. "Look Vladimir, I may be a person like me, but we are more similar than you think. We are both patriots. We would both do what is absolutely necessary to complete our objectives and serve our country…and we have both have developed a hatred for the Americans and the current government."

Makarov was beginning to look intrigued. "Do go on, Roman."

Klossovsky crossed his arms on the table, staring at Makarov direct into his eyes.

"Makarov, I have a proposition for you." Klossovsky informed.

"Please, continue."

The former president took a deep puff of his cigarette before almost playfully blowing the smoke in Makarov's direction. "Vladimir, are you willing to do what is absolutely necessary to stop the Americans invading Moscow?"

"You know the answer to that, Roman." Makarov replied impatiently.

"These are desperate times. It is time for desperate measures. How do you think the Americans could invade if there was no President, or more importantly, no Moscow?"


	9. Soap

Author's note: thanks to everyone who has read and reviews my story so far, I hugely appreciate it and take all comment into account. It's my first fanfic and my first piece of creative writing for quite some time, but I am doing my best to iron out any mistakes. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these coming chapters.

**Loyalist HQ, Tbilisi**

Captain 'Soap' MacTavish dragged himself to his feet, inquisitive to the deafening roar of the helicopters outside.

The Scottish SAS officer was now well on the road to recovery, but he couldn't help but run the situation of how he had gotten himself into that state in the first place a million times through his head. He had been thoroughly beaten in hand-to-hand combat by an equally injured man old enough to be his father, and only saved from death at the last second by the quick actions of Captain Price, who himself was beaten into momentary unconsciousness. If Soap hadn't pulled that knife out, both he and Price would not be here today. And Shepherd's turn of events would now have become gospel.

But that was only if Shepherd lived, and they died. Now the General was a corpse, lying in the middle of the desert with a combat knife embedded through his left eye, penetrating his brain. Eventually the Americans would find the charred carcass of his MH-53 Pave Low, and later what remained of his body nearby. If the US Army didn't cover up Shadow Company's treachery first by carpet-bombing them out of existence, maybe the remains of Task Force 141 would become free men, and be treated as the heroes they deserved to be recognized as. It was a long shot, but it was enough to keep Soap motivated.

The last time Kamarov's Loyalists had healed Soap, the Ultranationalists came knocking at their door a week later, thirsty for vengeance. Back then MacTavish was a relative nobody, a young SAS new-boy who just happened to be the other guy to survive the bridge ambush. The Russians didn't know it was him who had killed Imran Zakhaev, and quickly released him to absolutely no welcome from his people. All the British public knew at the time was that there was a 'bit of unrest' in Russia, but when wasn't there?

Price was not so lucky. Being a distinctive man, well known and highly despised by the Ultranationalist party, any talks the British made to secure his release died at the first hurdle. After a few weeks an SAS team was actually dispatched in a last-ditch attempt to rescue him, but the Intel was shady at best and they were left wandering around an empty and long-abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Grozny. After that, the British government gave up on their greatest war hero since the Second World War altogether, and Captain John Price was left to rot in the Gulag, forgotten by all but two men. One was MacTavish. The other was Vladimir Makarov.

Today, however, things were very different. Vorshevsky's Ultranationalist faction held the stick now, and until a few days ago they felt the need to thrash the United States of America with every last inch of it. Soap was now desperate to get an assault rifle in his hands and help what allies he had left put an end to it all. It would seem detonating a nuclear weapon in the upper atmosphere was still not enough.

Soap threw on the old fatigues Kamarov had left him and walked his way down the dreary, grey hallway that led to the helipads. He still moved with quite a limp, but it was much less of one now, and the pain in his chest and stomach was far less searing than it had been for the last few days. This filled him with a new found confidence. He would be back in the saddle in no time.

As he passed the doors, he was surprised to recognize a figure in Task Force 141 gear, leaning against the wall and waiting to welcome the occupants of the helicopters. It was Sergeant Phil Massey of the JTF2 Special Forces, although everyone in Task Force 141 knew him as Ozone. It was particularly jarring for Soap to see him without is ever-present wingman Scarecrow, and it only took one look at Ozone for him to realize what had happened to the former Delta.

The Canadian's physical injuries were now pretty much healed, but behind his tired eyes the rot was only just beginning. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is hardly a rare condition in any soldier, even one as highly experienced in the sheer amount of death and destruction as Massey. Coping with seeing your best friend cut in half by an RPG and your commanding officer murderously betray your unit within thirty seconds of each other, however, is a very different matter.

Eventually the two monstrous Hind helicopters touched down on the helipads in front of him, and Soap approached Ozone, who finally gave a short smile, at least happy to see the Captain back on his feet.

"Funny to not be shooting these bloody things down for a change, huh?" Soap joked, attempting to make conversation. Ozone only replied with a solemn nod, but that was more than enough for now.

The doors of the Hinds finally opened as the pilots killed the engines, and the Loyalists came rushing out, many of them carrying stretchers with multiple wounded. Soap had been informed by Nikolai that the Loyalists' attack on the airbase had been their bloodiest mission yet, and that their commanding officer had been killed in action.

Eventually, four men appeared whom Soap noticed as people he recognized. The first was Leftenant Michael Atkinson, or Archer, who had served under his Papa Six SAS unit prior to joining the One-Four-One. Atkinson was one very talented scout sniper, even by the standards of MacTavish, and Soap had recommended him to Shepherd himself.

The second man was his spotter, a Sergeant Dane Maylander of the USMC, known in the Task Force as Toad. Soap had only met the Marine once, but Archer asking to have him as his spotter for the raid on Makarov's safehouse said it all. Both expressed their delight to see the Captain.

Then there was the Loyalist, Kamarov. The very man who had saved Soap's life the first time round all those years ago. The Russian looked very moved at the death of Mashkov, his commanding officer, but his expression changed when he saw Soap in front of him, as he hadn't seen Soap conscious until now.

"Good to see you, friend!" Kamarov said, shaking Soap's scarred hand.

Soap smiled at the Russian, and as he looked over Kamarov's shoulder, Soap froze as he saw a familiar sight. Stood by the landing gear, with his arms crossed, was a smiling Captain Price.

"Price!" MacTavish bellowed, almost sounding choked up.

"You woke up then, Soap?" Price replied jokingly. "Enjoy your lie-in?"

"Very pleasant, sir." MacTavish said. "Bloody good to see you again, I must say."

"Feeling's mutual, Soap." Price then looked over towards Kamarov. "So what now, Kamarov? Where's your axe-wielding president heading?"

"He's going to Africa. We are not sure why." Kamarov informed.

Price looked puzzled. "Why? Is he going to try and take on Makarov all by himself?"

The Russian sighed. "I wouldn't put it past him."

* * *

**Perimeter of Marrakesh Menera Airport**

"Were you followed?"

The rear doors of the unmarked truck slammed behind Roman Klossovsky with a loud metallic clang, momentarily plunging the former president into a world of darkness. Around him he could sense them, some whispering to each other, and the feeling that no matter how many there were, they were all staring directly at him.

"Almost certainly." Klossovsky replied. "But they didn't see me here. Turn a light on. I want to see you."

A switch clicked. Dim light filled the back of the truck as six F.S.B agents; all dressed in jet-black fatigues appeared out of the darkness. The one that spoke to Klossovsky was Commander Gav Davidenko, faceless under his balaclava, but his cold, piercing grey eyes constantly monitoring the former president's every move.

"You have your wish." The Commander said, in a deep, heavy accent. "Has Makarov taken the bait?"

Klossovsky paused for a moment, then nodded.

"Good."

Klossovsky choked, at first looking like he was going to vomit before regaining his composure. "I have to say I don't like this one bit, commander. We all are aware of the grave consequences of the time the Americans tried something like-"

"I know." Davidenko interrupted. "But this time, things will be different. We know you and Makarov have a past. That short-lived Eastern Sunrise Movement in 1990, for instance. Remember that?"

Klossovsky's eyes widened. "How did you-"

"We know a lot more about you and him than that, Klossovsky." Davidenko cut in. "Deep down, Makarov trusts you. He needs all the help he can get right now, and if it's from a former comrade, so be it."

"Are you sure? With all due respect commander, Makarov is not really the 'forgive and forget' type."

"We know." The commander said. "But we are confident. We will have our careful eye on you anyway. As a matter of fact we've been watching you and your precious Loyalists every day for longer than you can remember. Isn't that right, Lieutenant Monotova?"

Monotova nodded before removing her balaclava, and Klossovsky instantly recognized her as one of his Loyalists. Lieutenant Natasha Monotova had been Klossovsky's pilot for over a year now, and had infiltrated the Loyalist moment easily, the advantages of being a fairly close relative of Kamarov despite hardly ever meeting him beforehand.

"Indeed, sir." She muttered coldly. "You always have me to report to. If we get this operation right, we can remove the current government, which I should mention the F.S.B as a whole despise, and kill that bastard Makarov before the week is out. The war will be over, and you can sit back in your tower like nothing happened."

Klossovsky was speechless. Once again, Commander Davidenko cut in for him, tapping the former president on the shoulder.

"Yes, comrade. The revolution begins now."


	10. Homecoming

He had only been out of the safehouse for five minutes, but it didn't take long for Archer to realize he was being followed.

The black Saab 9-5 sedan had been idling in an alleyway a few blocks back, the only car running on a road that was covered in a very thick layer of snow, and the only thing out of the ordinary about the car were the windows, as black as the paintwork itself, to the point where whoever was in the car was completely invisible.

Archer was armed of course, a small but powerful Steyr TMP machine pistol hidden away in a holster underneath his ski jacket. Archer knew it was already too late however, and whoever the occupants were, they would have their weapons aimed right at him. It would now be best just to accept his fate, whatever that may be. The second he turned to face the car, it accelerated hard towards him, the bright xenon headlights turning on to full beam, dazzling and temporarily blinding him. As Archer held his hands up, the sedan screeched to a halt, both front doors flying open almost simultaneously as two suited and western-looking men sprung out, both staring at him hard and emotionless and readying their silenced M4A1 assault rifles.

"Hands up!" The first, younger looking man ordered. Archer almost wanted to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard the British accent. At least there was now a chance the man had not been sent to kill him.

"Now drop your weapons!" came the second order.

He instantly upholstered his TMP, holding the weapon high. Archer dropped the magazine to the floor first, followed shortly afterward by the gun itself.

"Okay, now keep your hands up, and walk towards me!" the other British man growled, waving for Archer to move.

Archer was going to do everything they said. He kept his hands behind his head, staying calm as he edged slowly towards the blazing headlights of the Saab. As he got within touching distance of the sedan, the younger man seemed to lose his patience, and started to lift his rifle. Archer immediately knew what the man was going to do and left his precious seconds left to brace himself.

Then he felt it. The metal stock of the M4A1 rifle smashed hard into the side of his head with a sickening crack. At first Archer felt the uncontrollable dizziness as the world around him spiraled, followed by the rising of bile and nausea as he fell to his knees. Before he could vomit, he collapsed into the snow and lost consciousness altogether.

* * *

Archer awoke to a dark, spinning room, and he could just about make out the figure of a camouflaged man in front of him. As he began to regain his sight, he could see this soldier was in fact dressed in the uniform of the 22nd SAS, his perfectly presented green sweater, blue belt and sand colored beret meant he must have been a newly selected trooper. As Archer surveyed his surroundings, he realized he had been in this building before. Many times. This was RAF Credenhill, the headquarters of the SAS.

The trooper remained standing still in front of him, his face and brown eyes remaining ever watching and coldly still. A few moments later he turned and saluted as two other men walked into the hangar.

The first was in his fifties, and wore the uniform of a British Army colonel. Archer had met this man before. He was Colonel Marcus Brickfield, the man who had ordered the original retaliation against Imran Zakhaev during the first six-day war.

The other, younger man wore a suit. He was aged around forty, and had very short brown hair and a neatly trimmed goatee beard. His clothes were not expensive looking, nor did anything about his demeanor scream that he was in any position of power, but all the body language of the two men next to him said different. Archer didn't know who he was, but he was certainly a very powerful man.

"Thank you, Trooper Bishop." The colonel said. "You may now untie the Leftenant."

"Yes sir." Bishop replied, immediately striding around to the back of the chair, quickly untying Archer.

"You may stand." Brickfield told Archer, who quickly rose to his feet, standing to attention.

"Stand easy, soldier. Apologies for all this, but we know we wouldn't get you here by invitation."

"I've got to say, you've got some balls, Atkinson." The suited man, an American, sneered. Judging by his accent, he was from the Midwest and very well educated.

"You escape Russia and everything it throws at you, only for the first thing you do with your freedom is run your own little black ops back into the country with our very own Sergeant Maylander! Not content with that, you then go on to harbor the two most wanted men in the world who aren't Vladimir Makarov. I've got to give it to you, son. That takes guts."

Archer looked up at the man. "And who exactly the hell are you, sir?"

"You shall call me Raptor." The American replied. "I work for the US Intelligence Services, and that's all you need to know."

"So, if you have any intelligence, you'll know the truth about General Shepherd, won't you?" Archer muttered.

Raptor crossed his arms, giving a solemn nod. "Indeed. Even I didn't know Shadow Company existed until it was too late. Luckily your boys left a couple alive for us to get answers out of. Loyal to the end, those mad bastards. We had to use some pretty interesting techniques to get anything out of them, but I now know the truth, and I'm deeply sorry about your Task Force buddies. Shame about Shepherd, though, the Ranger unit he commandeered saved my life."

"Yeah?" Archer said, sarcastically. "Shame about that, too."

Raptor scowled. "Hey buddy, I'm the best friend you have on this goddamn planet right now. Who do you think is letting you run these little extra-curricular activities and is allowing your precious commanding officers remain free men? Me, that's who. Against all advice from my superiors, I should say. Don't let your excellent native British sarcasm ruin that, pal!"

"Who said I was being sarcastic?"

This earned a short smile from Brickfield, who quickly straightened up and handed Archer a dossier.

"He's right, you know." The Colonel informed. "You work for him and I now, Atkinson. We want to reform Task Force 141. Our first mission will take place in Monaco, so at least you'll be heading somewhere nice for a change."

Archer opened up the dossier to see a picture of a beautiful white superyacht named the_ Epsilon._ All the other vessels surrounding her in the Monaco bay were huge, and worth hundreds of millions of dollars a piece, but the _Epsilon_ dwarfed them all, both in price and size. At 550ft, she was a truly stunning craft, more of a small cruise ship than a yacht, fitted with two helipads and over 24 guest suites.

"Vorshevsky is supposed to be staying in Monaco ahead of the peace talks." Brickfield said. "But we all know he isn't going to show. However, his playboy son, Vasily, is already there and has decided the best way to help his country is for him to hold parties on the _Epsilon _every day of the week. He's our ticket to Vorshevsky, so you and some of your old SAS friends will go and get Vasily for us. Should be interesting for them, they attended your funeral a few days ago."

Archer gave the Colonel a glance. "Didn't we try something just like this before with the Zakhaevs? Worked great then, didn't it?"

"Vasily Vorshevsky isn't the 'suicide for honor on rooftops' type, trust me on that." Raptor cut in. "But we need him. One thing, the F.S.B. They'll be waiting for you. They seem to be have gone rogue, trying to destabilize the country for their own means. They have plans for Vasily themselves, so we have to beat them to him, so you'll be keeping your loyalist friends in the dark. Complete this mission, and I'll see to it that MacTavish and Price have clear names before the week is out."


	11. Who Dares Wins

It had been a long time since Archer had stood by the grassy landing area of RAF Credenhill. As an experienced special forces operator, he hadn't been expecting the feeling of butterflies in his stomach that hit him as the Air Force CH-47 Chinook hovered overhead with a tandem-rotor roar, coming in to land a few hundred meters from his position. But he had every right to be apprehensive, as he knew all of the passengers on board the monstrous aircraft. They were his colleagues and friends, and at the moment, they still thought that their former Leftenant was dead.

Archer licked his lips and took a deep breath in anticipation as with a metallic creak the rear door of the helicopter began to lower and four soldiers immediately, and seemingly simultaneously emerged. Each wore fatigues and webbing in the Multi-Terrain-Pattern, the new British camouflage that was a mixture of Crye's Multicam and traditional DPM. They also wore green shemagh scarves, LASH headsets; Oakley tactical gloves, boots and sunglasses, and carried the usual SAS-issue Diemaco C8 Carbine rifles.

The first to notice Archer was a Leftenant named Jamie Mercer.

The Nottingham-born Mercer was six foot three, hugely athletic with intelligent hazel eyes and thick, dark brown hair. Only a year younger, Mercer passed SAS selection on the same day as Archer. Since then the two soldiers had shared a competitive friendship as they both rose through the ranks of the regiment. That was, of course, until both tried for selection of the international Task Force 141.

Both had been convinced that they would easily pass the strict criteria, even flying out to Firebase Phoenix in Afghanistan to prove themselves to General Shepherd in person on the legendary 'Pit' shooting range. However, it was fate that decided only Archer would join the Task Force, and Mercer began to resent his old friend for beating him to it. Resentment that turned to immense guilt when he discovered that Archer had been killed in a bizarre turn of events in Russia along with two other SAS soldiers.

The moment Mercer noticed Archer he froze, his tanned complexion from a tour in the Middle East turning an icy white. To Jamie, he was quite literally seeing a dead man walking. Eventually, he slowly removed his sunglasses and dropped them to the ground, his mouth open in a state of shock. Eventually, the three other soldiers flanking him noticed and gave an near-identical expression. It takes a lot to shock a man from the SAS, but seeing a fallen comrade standing alive and well in front of you just about manages it.

"What the fuck?" Mercer eventually muttered, with a raised eyebrow, as if Archer were somehow playing some kind of elaborate practical joke on him.

"Hello, Jamie." Archer tentatively replied.

"What the hell happened to you, Arch?" Mercer asked. He rarely used Atkinson's real name, as he had earned the callsign since his scout sniper days in the Parachute Regiment, before even joining the SAS. "I was at your funeral, and now here you are, standing amongst us."

"A clerical error, I guess." Archer murmured.

Mercer smirked. "What, a clerical error that involved your commanding officer going psycho and topping your whole unit? We were told all about it. You the only one to make it out then?"

Archer shook his head. "No. My spotter did, and a Canadian soldier, and…a couple of others. Can't really divulge the details of that at the moment, I'm afraid."

"I bet I can guess who those two were." Mercer said, to knowing grins from the three others.

"But it was true what they told us, about Riley and Sanderson?" Sgt. Evan Briggs, one of the younger soldiers, cut in. His still-youthful face looked anxious, as if Archer's survival had given him a faint glimmer of hope about the rest of his fallen comrades.

Archer sighed, and gave the Sergeant a nod, at which his heart seemed to sink. "I'm afraid so. And that is something I can confirm myself. I'm sorry."

"Fuckin' waste." Muttered Corporal Jake Steyn, the fair-haired Rhodesian-born demolitions expert. "I mean, it's not like I didn't expect them to die out there, just not like that. Remind me never to trust those fuckin' Yankees again, they can handle Ivan by themselves from now on if that's how they thank us."

Archer held up his hands to order a pause. "Whoa, man. Steady. My spotter was a US Marine, and I have him to thank for even being here in the first place, mate. They ain't all bad."

"Yeah, just mostly."

Colonel Brickfield, who had appeared next to Archer seemingly from nowhere, cut the reunion short. "All very nice, Atkinson, but I have to debrief these men right now. You can talk more when I brief you on the plane."


	12. Epsilon

Nikolai breathed one long sigh of relief as he finally made it out of the freezing cold and back into the warm, if not hugely inviting building. He strode into the mess hall of the Loyalist's headquarters, his short hair and ski jacket still covered in a layer of snow. In one hand he held a very complicated looking Global Positioning System, or some kind of tracking device. In the other he carried a large notepad, covered in various scribbles.

The Russian caught the attention of Price, who was sitting at a table with Soap and Kamarov, and quickly made his way over to them, pulling up a chair and slamming his papers down onto the table.

"I was right." Nikolai said, "Archer was taken, and now they've got Toad."

"Shit." Price muttered, running a hand through his thick beard, deep in thought. "Did you discover who was responsible?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Replied Nikolai, flicking through his notes. "They were British, Secret Service probably. I tracked down the car they were using, the same Saab sedan my witness told me about before. I managed to fit a tracking device to it this time, and it headed all the way to Brize Norton."

Soap put his mug of coffee back down onto the table, and managed a smile. "Well then, at least there's a chance they might still be alive."

"Indeed." Kamarov added. "What on earth could they be doing at Brize Norton?"

Nikolai searched through his papers once more, picking one out, the typed letters meaning it was obviously a fax. "Well, a very interesting plane left there yesterday evening, heading for Monaco."

Everything was slowly beginning to make sense for Soap. "The Peace Treaty." He said. "What could they be doing? Working with the Regiment?"

Price crossed his arms. "God knows, Soap, but I reckon they'll be blackmailed into doing some sort of job by command. I don't know Archer well, but I do know he thinks the bloody world of you. He'll die in order to clear your name."

Soap abruptly stood from his chair. "Whatever it is, they'll need our help." He said, picking up his equipment from the floor. "We should head there right now. I'll take my chances with the Americans, whether they know the truth by now or not. Whatever happens, so be it. I'm fed up of sitting around on my arse like this."

* * *

As the two cars pulled up, nothing could quite prepare one for the sheer size and presence of the _Epsilon. _The humongous craft towered high into the night sky, high above everything else in the harbor; her gleaming pearly white paintwork and huge illuminated, crystal windows rising higher even than the buildings surrounding it. The _Epsilon_ did not actually belong to Vasily Vorshevsky himself, rather a multi-billionaire oil magnate, Sergey Kovas, of whom Vasily was a personal friend.

Kovas had allowed Vorshevsky to use the yacht as a meeting point for the great and the good of the world's militaries ahead of the peace treaty. For Kovas, the war was naturally very bad for business, and as was the case with all the oligarchs, he was going to side with anyone who could end it, even shadowy characters like Raptor. Therefore, Mercer and his men would enter the yacht undercover, as people who worked for him. Hopefully, they could persuade Vorshevsky to come with them without a fuss, and beat the people who wanted him dead. The nagging feeling in Archer's head told him it wouldn't be that easy, but it was worth a shot.

"Jesus Christ!" came a call from behind him. "Now that is one big yacht! How we supposed to find just one man in there?"

Archer turned around to find Jake Steyn with his hands in his pockets, still smiling.

The Corporal was the kind of solider who always seemed to enjoy the experience, no matter quite how bad it was. Growing up in Salisbury, now know as Harare, in the late seventies, Steyn had always dreamed of joining the SAS C Squadron, like his father before him. These dreams were shattered, however, when the regiment was disbanded in the early eighties, along with Rhodesia itself. Steyn's family left for Great Britain soon after, never to return. Once he became a British citizen; Jake became determined to join the closest thing to C Squadron, the 22nd SAS. It took a very difficult career in the Parachute Regiment and two attempts at selection, but here he was.

"I guess our contact should lead us to him." Archer replied.

"So, where is our Mr. Kovas?" Steyn asked, looking around for Raptor's man. Archer simply shrugged as a response. This mission was basically blackmail to get his comrades out of trouble, but it was good to be back with his old friends.

As Archer turned back to face the yacht, a man emerged from the rear of the craft, making his way towards them with a somewhat elegant walk. Sergey Kovas was by no means a distinctive man. His jet-black suit was from Saville Row, and was very expensive, but his graying black hair was somewhat messy. Kovas was the kind of man you could pass on the street and not know he was one of the richest men in the world, and he liked it that way.

The always-prepared Trooper Bishop was the first to recognize him.

"Mr. Kovas." Bishop said, his well-spoken home counties accent even more emphasized than usual. "It is an honor to meet you, sir."

"Likewise." Kovas replied, his lightly accented, polite voice and perfect smile hiding his nerves. "Which one of you is Mercer?"

The Leftenant took a confident step forward, shaking the oligarch's hand. "I am Mercer, sir. Is Vorshevsky on board the yacht at present?"

Kovas nodded. "Yes, he's up on the fourth floor, or he was when I left. You'll know where it is, his office is the only room with a door marked private."

"Very well." Mercer said. "Archer, you go with me, Toad, and Bish. Briggsy, you go with Steyn, Thompson and Park. Splitting up should make us look less suspicious to anyone who has more malevolent intentions than us. Do we have passes, Kovas?"

"Of course, this is my yacht, and everyone should think you work for me."

"Excellent. Alright, let's do this."

Toad faced the second team as they headed off in the opposite direction, and with the moments he had before entering the boat, Steyn gave the Marine a smirk. The SAS man was obviously happy not to be lumbered with the American, who obviously like all Americans would stab you in the back at any moment. Toad couldn't blame them, they had lost a lot of colleagues who had joined the 141, including two of their best to Shepherd himself. Hopefully, he would be able to gain the trust of Archer's men eventually, and if he couldn't…fuck it, they would have to put up with him anyway.

As he entered the interior of the boat, Toad and SAS were immediately taken aback by the sheer opulence of the craft. The _Epsilon_ was a floating palace, furnished in a very modern but tasteful way, all white leather and black walls. No expense had been spared on any of the furnishings. It was no surprise these oligarchs wanted the war to be over tonight, this was quite a way to live, and they wanted it kept that way.

"Now all we have to do is make our way to the fourth floor and find that fucker." Mercer whispered into his hidden comms. "Briggs, any luck, mate?"

"Jack shit on the second floor, sir." The Sergeant replied.

"Good." Bishop said. "That's how it should be, right?"

"Yeah, sure, just stay frosty."

On every floor were officers representing the militaries of various countries. Judging by their uniforms they were French, German, Italian, Israeli, Pakistani, British, American, and even Russian to name but a few, all standing around enjoying champagne and talking amongst themselves. The other people, in suits, were obviously politicians. Vasily Vorshevsky was obviously trying to please the entire world on one boat.

One they reached the forth floor, they regrouped with Team Two, as it became obvious Vorshevsky hadn't gone anywhere else. There was now only a short walk to the door with a 'private' sign. Mercer led the way, first looking around the empty part of the hallway before finally reaching his hand out for the handle of the door to the room, and it was then it finally dawned that they were indeed not alone in trying to reach the president's son.

The explosion was huge, and from a car bomb detonated outside on the harbor. The sheer force of the deafening blast rocked the _Epsilon_, throwing Archer, Toad, Mercer and his men across the corridor, landing in the smashed glass that was cascading all around them.

"Fuck!" Trooper Bishop groaned, almost simultaneously with everyone else. "I thought this was supposed to be easy!"

"Since when was anything we did easy?" Archer muttered a he rose to his feet, and his thoughts immediately turned to the door ahead of him. Aiming a kick, he opened the door to Vorshevsky's office, and upon entering, found the Russian alive and well, hiding under his desk and quivering with fear. When he saw Archer, he slowly got to his feet, holding his hands up into the air. Vasily was in his mid thirties, slim, dark-haired and well groomed.

"No, please! Whoever you are, please don't kill me!" Vorshevsky begged.

"Don't be stupid." Archer replied curtly. "We're here to protect you. Now hit the deck before someone takes a shot at you."

Vasily did exactly as he was told as the rest of Archer's team, all drawing their sub-machine guns, had now joined him in the office. As the screams began to rise all around them, the gunfire started. The soldiers took a glance through the shattered windows, to see the faming wreckage of the car bomb and four menacing black Chevrolet SUVs that had now parked up at the marina. The occupants of the Chevrolets had already made their intentions very clear by opening fire on anyone who tried to escape the _Epsilon._

"Contact!" came the instantaneous yell.

"Light 'em up!" Mercer growled, before snapping round to face Bishop. "Right, Bish, I want you to stay here with Thompson, Park and Briggsy. You can cover us from this elevated position while we stop these guys getting on the fucking boat."

Bishop nodded, and the rest of the SAS team rushed their way to the exit of the yacht. As they reached the area on the first floor that they had entered in, the entire place had turned to absolute bedlam. Armed BGs for the various military officials were wildly firing their various assault rifles and sub-machine guns in every direction, and a few bodies already lay on the floor. Judging by their lifeless expressions, these unlucky men were the ones who were caught by surprise first, and hadn't had the time to even draw their weapons. Fortunately, Kovas wasn't among them, but he had seemingly disappeared.

"Watch your fire boys." Mercer said, "There are civilians everywhere."

Archer caught a glimpse of two figures moving through the blackness, and neither of them were civvies, both men in suits and body armor, charging their way towards the entrance of the yacht. Each carried vicious M240 light machine guns, and were both hip-firing at anyone they saw. They hadn't seen Archer and his men enter the room yet, so for the precious seconds they on in clear view on the gangway, they were sitting ducks.

Toad must have seen them at the exact same time, as he and Archer seemed to open fire with their suppressed H&K MP5KSD sub-machine guns simultaneously. It only took two taps to bring the two men down, the rounds striking the tangos in the head. But the doors of the packed SUVs were already opening, the occupants of the vehicles barking various orders at each other in Russian.

"Those guys are down!" Archer shouted, "But whoever these people are, they are certainly putting on a show!"

By this time, Bishop's team had already opened fire from the third floor, hitting at least three of the tangos and shredding the Chevrolets they arrived in. As most of the return fire was being concentrated on the high ground, this gave Mercer's team more than enough time to make their way across the gangway and onto the scene of carnage that the harbor had now become. More of the dead lay in every direction, and the strong smell of smoke, gunpowder and charred metal dominated the atmosphere. Whoever these assassins were, they were now regrouping and everyone had to act fast.

"Three foot-mobiles, by the truck to the far left!" cried a voice from behind. It was Mercer, who was now darting for some cover behind a nearby wall. The muzzle flashes from next to the vehicles started up again, penetrating through the right as the rounds whistled overhead and slammed into the ground all around them.

"Flash out!"

Steyn's grenade rolled perfectly under the SUV to Archer's right, the pyrotechnic mix exploding on the other side of the vehicle. The four men using it for cover groaned as they staggered about, momentarily blind and deaf. It didn't take long for one to wonder out of cover and right into Archer's sights. The MP5KSD was a mere whisper in the roaring gun battle, but it did its job. The still-blinded Russian grabbed at his neck as the round slammed through it, before crumpling to the ground. The two other tangos mimicked the same movements, nailed as they strayed into Steyn and Mercer's line of fire. Time to move.

"Toad! On me!" Archer ordered. "Let's do this!"

"Roger that!"

Archer and Toad leapt over the small wall they had been using for cover and charged up to the SUV as Mercer and Steyn took the left flank. Archer reached the other side first, to find the remaining tango using the Chevy for cover. He had obviously only seen Mercer make his run, and now had his AK-47 aimed right for the SAS Leftenant as he dived for cover. Archer wasn't going to wait for him to fire, and immediately aimed his MP5KSD for the back of the man's head and fired a burst.

Toad covered Archer from the front of the Chevrolet, taking down two enemies who had broken from cover to try and get a pot shot at the moving squad, their bodies squirming as the sub-machine gun rounds slammed into them.

"I'm out!" Toad bellowed, moving back towards cover as he slammed a new clip into the MP5KSD.

The tangos were becoming harder to see now; they had popped smoke to cover their movements as they headed further back into the marina. Nobody had a weapon with a thermal sight, so everyone was more than a little hesitant to proceed.

"Bishop, I can't see shit down here!" Mercer yelled into the radio, "You see anything up there?"

"Negative, sir."

Suddenly, a roar filled the air as seemingly out of nowhere an MH-6 Little Bird raced overhead, before coming to a hover parallel to the terrorist's position. Two men sat perched on the side of the heli, both armed with powerful M14 EBR sniper rifles, and as soon as the Little Bird stabilized, they opened fire on their targets with lightning accuracy. The tangos were cut down running as they attempted to escape, the ones who avoided the sniper's sights straying through the smoke and straight back into Mercer and his men.

Once it was clear all the would-be assassins had all been dealt with, Mercer's team made their way back to the office on board the damaged yacht, where Bishop, Briggs, and Troopers Park and Thompson had held Vasily Vorshevsky, who was thankfully still alive, if very sweaty and shaken.

"Raptor, we have the package." Archer informed over the comms. "I repeat, we have the package. We did encounter heavy resistance, over."

"You don't think I already know that?" Raptor replied almost immediately. "We're already on the way to your position. Out."

Archer and Toad's attention now turned to the MH-6, that was now coming in to land on one of the superyacht's helipads, and Toad turned to Archer and smiled.

"I bet I know who they are." The Marine said, almost sounding excited.

Archer gave the American a nod. "I know, but how the hell would they know where to find us?"


	13. Russian Revolution

Even at the best of times, the streets of Moscow were hardly an inviting sight at this time of year. And these were most certainly not the best of times, especially for Lieutenant Natasha Monotova. The young F.S.B officer was born into a Russia that taught its children to embrace the western world and the nature of capitalism, something that was even more rapidly accelerating at the time of Roman Klossovsky's reign. Then, like the flick of a switch, the country took yet another u-turn as the new quasi-communist, Ultranationalist government took the seat of power and wanted Russia to be an example of the ideals of being _'united forever in friendship and labor'_ once again.

It only got worse when Vorshevsky disastrously attacked Virginia, costing countless lives on both sides and ending in an awkward and fragile ceasefire. The shockwaves hit Moscow instantaneously, with every shop, restaurant and club with a small hint of American influence being shut down, the plywood boards over the windows immediately being swarmed in various sickening propaganda posters. With over twenty years of westernization to deal with, that meant a whole lot of shops closed. Entire blocks of Moscow became ghost towns overnight as the whole town started to go south. Fast.

This was a nightmare that was impossible to wake up from, and that was only just beginning. Of course, there were countless ways it all could end, each more terrifying and possibly apocalyptic than the next. The F.S.B wanted to end it the right way, and as long as the tricolor flag still flew, and it didn't turn entirely red, there was a glimmer of hope.

Natasha turned her attention from the depressing state of the streets outside to the only mildly warming interior of the coffee shop she was sitting in. Over the past few hours the atmosphere of the city has changed dramatically, telling by the television playing in the corner, the newspaper sitting on the table, hell, even all the expressions on everybody's faces. Apparently, unknown British and American 'Good Samaritans' had just rescued the son of the president from a devastating terrorist attack in Monaco. Of course, everywhere you went the conspiracy rumors ran rife, but that was a matter of principle.

Natasha knew the truth, but she couldn't quite believe it herself. A few days ago she had been associating with these so-called 'Good Samaritans ' and at the time had no idea just how important these few good men would end up being to the overall plan.

Before she could think the situation over some more, Natasha's thoughts were suddenly, and rudely, interrupted by the tinny cascading wail of her mobile phone. Reaching into the inner pocket of the jet-black leather jacket that lay beside her, she flipped the Nokia open, and her poise immediately changed. Grabbing her jacket in one hand, and the lukewarm coffee in the other, she made a line for the exit; giving the establishment she had visited since childhood a final glance before departing.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant." said a voice from behind. Natasha turned to face the familiar voice, and found Commander Davidenko leaning on the wall of the entrance to the café. The Commander wore a grey suit and had a friendlier face than his ice-cold eyes would tell. "Knew I'd find you here."

"You know, you can always just go in the shop and say hello." Natasha replied. "That's what normal people tend to do. You'll find me surprisingly approachable."

Davidenko just chuckled to himself, pulling a Gauloises out of the packet before gesturing towards his black BMW 545i sedan parked on the side of the street. "You can get in, the car's unlocked."

The Commander's car was almost brand new, but it looked like it hadn't been washed in months, and the interior was even worse. It took a few minutes just to clear the various food wrappers, half eaten sandwiches, drinks cans and newspapers off the passenger seat before Natasha sat down, rather uncomfortably, before sliding the coffee cup into the holder and putting her jacket on rather than leave it in the disgusting footwell. Davidenko got in next, starting the car, as the ___crescendo of_ Gershwin's 'Rhapsody in Blue' burst into life on the radio as the engine started.

"Jesus, turn that down." Natasha murmured as she reached into her holster, drawing and checking her CZ-75 pistol, one of the two Czechoslovakian firearms she kept on her. "It's too early in the morning."

"You seem unnaturally nervous, Tasha." Davidenko stated, giving the Lieutenant a rather caring look. He had been the one to train the young Muscovite, and in many ways always treated her like a daughter. She was, however, one very difficult person to read, and certainly the type to suffer in silence. "Anyway, I thought you respected the classics. You haven't been taking those pills again, have you?"

"No." She hissed, holstering her weapon and running her hand through her short, black hair before giving the Commander a knowing and reassuring look. "No, really, I'm okay, Gav. What are we still doing here, anyway? Let's go."

Davidenko merely sighed as he shook his head nonchalantly as a response, before putting his seatbelt on, putting the sedan into drive and setting off.

A few minutes later, the BMW parked up at what was the site of the old Hotel Rossiya. The now-demolished hotel was at one time the largest in the world, its depressing, grey, sixties Soviet architecture towering ominously over the Kremlin walls and Red Square. The building had a grim history, too, with forty-two people being killed in a huge fire in the late seventies. Then, for many years in the early 2000s, it simply stood abandoned and forgotten. Now it was gone, destroyed and replaced with what was intended to be the most luxurious entertainment complex in the world. The only problem with the new and far prettier building was when Vorshevsky took power the entire project was cancelled by its western developers before it could be finished or furnished. Now all that stood there was a mere towering husk of a structure.

"This is it?" Natasha asked.

"You'll see." Davidenko answered, to a glare from Natasha's emerald green eyes, seemingly studying and analyzing the Commander's body language to try and find an answer, only to get a shrug and a short laugh. "Come on, Lieutenant. Let's go."

"Always leaving the surprises, huh?" Natasha said, a smile developing on her face. "I think I know what this is, but I hope it isn't."

Her suspicions were confirmed when the doors of the gleaming silver Range Rover, one of the five cars parked outside the complex, opened, and four of her F.S.B colleagues emerged, each with a grimmer expression on his face than the last.

"Oh, fuck." Natasha groaned, before giving a quick chuckle at the thought of the predictability. "Knew it."

"That's the Monotova I remember." Davidenko beamed, patting his colleague on the back. "About time, too. Come on, let's get whatever this is done."

Before the pleasantries could continue, a fifth man exited the vehicle, and both Davidenko and Monotova's jaws dropped. Out, into the car park, strode the former president, Roman Klossovsky. He had been a ghost for days, to the point where Natasha had assumed he had been murdered, or gone native and supported Makarov for real. But now here he was.

"What the hell is this?" the Commander muttered, giving Natasha a stare that looked almost worried. "Hey, Marki, what the _hell_ is this?"

"We have a meeting, commander." Marki Kirshov, another F.S.B Lieutenant, replied. "Inside the building."

"Alright, alright." Davidenko said, with a rather furrowed expression. "Very well, but I'm not sure why you were informed on this instead of me."

"That's because you aren't going to like this, Commander." Kirshov sighed. "Not one fucking bit. Come on, let's get this over with."

The agents, with Klossovsky following, made their way into the eerily silent and empty interior of the complex, each room as identical and faceless than the next. There was nothing but white walls, white ceilings and white carpets for what felt like miles, until they finally reached a room where a group of men stood talking to each other. They included an Army General, a Navy Admiral, an Air Marshall, two well-known oligarchs, and two tattooed men in jeans and t-shirts.

The most surprising of all, was that standing amongst all these men was Kamarov, now dressed in the formal Russian Army uniform. He must have known his niece was F.S.B all along, as his face showed no signs of surprise or even emotion at seeing Natasha show up to the meeting.

The men in casual clothes were possibly the most influential men in the room. They were high-ranking members of the Bratva, the most dangerous crime syndicate in the world. If the Bratva had been hugely powerful a few years ago, they were a colossal entity now. As was the case with the FBI allowing the Cosa Nostra a second coming when they loosened their stranglehold to pursue Al-Qaeda, the F.S.B had allowed a renaissance to occur for the Bratva when they concentrated their interests on pursuing Makarov.

However, in a similar case to that of the oligarchs, the Bratva knew the war was very, very bad for their business. They might not even survive if it continued much longer. They wanted it stopped equally badly as the oligarchs, and today they were wiling to make a pact with the devil himself, and do a deal with their sworn enemies to put it all to one quick and devastating end.

"Commander, glad you could make it." Welcomed Kamarov, sounding far colder than his usual self. "I assume you now know why you are here."

Davidenko shrugged. "I think I can guess. The pieces of this big old chess game finally moving towards checkmate, huh?"

"Too right." Replied the Admiral. "And as I'm sure you are aware, there have been some rather extraordinary developments in the past few hours. That's why our esteemed former president has joined us today. Makarov thought he was ahead of us in attacking Vasily Vorshevsky, and he was, actually. But he didn't count on whoever the hell those guys were stopping his assassins."

"So now, Makarov naturally thinks Klossovsky set him up." One of the Bratva gangsters stated. "So we have to do something to convince him otherwise. Something very explosive indeed."

"I want to execute Directive Collateral." The Army General said, with no hint of emotion. "I mean we all do. We've all agreed it is now the only option left available to us, Davidenko, but feel we must ask your opinion first."

Of all the F.S.B officers, only the Commander knew what Directive Collateral was, and he took one long, deep breath, his head in his hands. Natasha and her fellow agents merely stared blankly, unknowing of what their Commanding officer may bring about. After a minute, Davidenko looked up, staring at the General with a vacant look. There was no choice.

"Call it."

The General immediately responded with a wry smile, and reached for his radio. "Major Krukov, this is General Greyenko. What's your status, over."

A pause.

"We have the President in transit, sir."

"Okay, Krukov." Replied the General, now sounding a little tenser. "Change of objectives, Major. Directive Collateral is a go. I repeat, Directive Collateral is a go. May God be with us."


	14. A New Dawn

Author's Note: Thanks to whoever it was who informed me that the Navy does not use the F-15. Guess MW2 misled me a bit there!

* * *

It was an hour after Task Force 141 had been informed that a rogue bodyguard, allegedly an anti-Ultranationalist mole, had assassinated the President of Russia by detonating an improvised explosive hidden under Vorshevsky's limousine, killing himself in the process. Although the Prime Minister had now taken control, the Kremlin was weak, and one big free-for-all was about to take place. The Russian civil war was about to start up again in earnest, and the world now had to ensure the right side won.

Toad and the SAS team, joined by Price and MacTavish, were now sitting in a United States Navy SH-60 Seahawk, one of two that currently thundered low across the ocean, leaving the smoking _Epsilon _far behind them. On the second helicopter was a Navy SEAL team, joined by Ozone and protecting Vasily Vorshevsky, who showed no emotion whatsoever upon hearing of the death of his father. Nikolai had set off to a different location in his Little Bird, and neither Price nor MacTavish knew where he was heading.

"The Ultranationalists are pretty much leaderless now." Raptor informed, his strong American accent a yell over the powerful roar of the Seahawk's turboprop engines. "This guy Ivanov is even more of a puppet than Vorshevsky was. They'll now turn to anyone powerful enough to ensure victory."

"Yeah, and that means Makarov." Captain Price, who was sitting opposite Archer, grumbled. "So the Loyalists are taking a gamble. They either take control for good this time, or they lose everything."

"It's a gamble we want to ensure ends up going the right way for them." Raptor cut in, the American not looking his usual ultra-confident self. "Which is why we are going to support them one hundred percent of the way this time. No compromises,"

"I just hope these guys have something resembling a plan." Toad murmured, felling uneasy but not looking it. "God knows, this could still all be for precisely jack."

"You'll have everything we've got backing you up on this one." Raptor said, a smile emerging tentatively on his face. "The U.S Military has been desperate to go to Moscow ever since the White House was retaken. They will be there under different circumstances than they were expecting, granted, but you'll have all the support you could possibly want. Today you'll meet with a few of your old friends from back in the day, Maylander."

At hearing this, the Marine's eyes lit up, and for a second, Toad had the look of an excited child on Christmas morning. Although technically it hadn't really been very long since he had left the Marines for Task Force 141, it had felt like a parallel existence. The sheer amount that had happened over the past few days made his old life seem very distant, almost normal in comparison. As Toad stared across the endless sea, at least he now had meeting some old comrades to look forward to before the final push on Moscow.

As it turned out, Raptor had not been overstating about the Task Force having all the support they could possibly want, as an hour later a pair of colossal ships came into view on the horizon. After a while, it became obvious these were no ordinary vessels but huge aircraft carriers, or to be precise _Nimitz_-Class supercarriers, the _USS George H.W Bush_ (CVN-77), and the _USS John C. Stennis_ (CVN-74).

As the heli edged closer, the noise of rotors and jet engines became absolutely deafening. Surrounding the ships were scores of helicopters and fighter aircraft from various countries. These included, but were not limited to, US Marines F-35B Lightning II fighters, British Fleet Air Arm Harrier GR.9s, Navy F/A-18E Super Hornets, and Canadian CF-18A multi-role fighters. Joining them were F/A-18 Hornets and F-111 Strike Aircraft of the Royal Australian Air Force. As well as the jets, the usual transport and attack aircraft also raced around the area like one huge mechanical swarm of wasps.

Surprisingly, there were also aircraft of the Russian Loyalist resistance amongst them, which was noticed already as a grey Su-24M all-weather fighter roared overhead, and the distinctive, sleek coaxial-rotor profile of the futuristic Kamov Ka-50 'Black Shark', better known to allied forces as the _Hokum_ attack helicopter, hovered over the deck of the _George H.W Bush. _The huge gathering of allied aircraft, as well as the mass of troops on board, was truly an awesome sight to behold.

"Boys," Raptor said, a smile on his face. "Meet the new Task Force 141."

* * *

The two Seahawks touched down on the flight deck of the _Stennis_, and before the second helicopter had even stopped moving the SEALS were already halfway across the deck, with Vasily in tow. As soon as they had disappeared to other end, another group of men dressed in MARPAT fatigues, MICH helmets and Modular Tactical Vests emerged, and stood waiting. These were obviously US Marines, and Toad recognized these men immediately. They must have been told by Raptor that he was on this helicopter, and were coming to greet him.

"Mates of yours, Toad?" Archer asked, obviously noticing the change in Toad's body language.

"Yes, they are." Toad replied, trying hard not to sound to excited. "From my old unit."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Archer said. "I've had my merry little reunion, I'm not going to stop you from having yours."

Toad smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Before he could leave, Toad felt a hand tap against his shoulder. Turning round to face who it was, the Marine found the Rhodesian, Steyn, sitting next to him, and with a facial expression far friendlier than any one he had seen of him previously.

"Look, Toad." The SAS man said, "I've gotta say this, china. I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot like that. You're a good bloke, huh? So, apologies for me jumping to conclusions like that, I hope you understand"

"Oh, sure." Toad paused for a moment, almost taken aback. "No problem, man. It's just good to see you boys are all like Archer."

"Yeah, yeah. Alright, mate." Steyn said. "You run along. If those Marines are all like you, it'll be an honor to fight alongside them."

With that, Toad gave a short laugh and went on his way. Archer took the moment of silence afterward to turn to Price and MacTavish.

"Guys, I cannot express how grateful I am for your air support these two times." He said. "I've been running off on these little charades and it always seems to be you boys risking your necks that ends up saving my stupid arse."

MacTavish responded with a startled laugh. "Are you kidding me?" the Scottish Captain scoffed. "We should be thankful to you, risking your life for no other reason than to give your friends a helping hand."

"Bloody right." Price acknowledged. "You could have just run home, pretending you never knew us, same with your mate Toad. But instead you proved yourselves."

"That's what the Regiment is about, sir." Archer replied. "If I put myself first I'd have joined a PMC long ago."

Archer words resonated well with the SAS crew, and they were all now getting ready to leave the Seahawk. On their way out, Captain Price caught Raptor's attention, grabbing the far smaller man by the arm.

"So, Mr. whatever your name is." Price said to the American, his tone completely neutral but everything about the legendary solider unnerving the man in the suit. "What about me and Soap then. We do this, are we out? Or will this go on forever?"

"Oh, what?" Raptor mumbled, before regaining his composure. "You are referring to that little incident with the…rogue Russian submariners? Well, consider it done."

with that, Raptor paused for a moment, then let out a long sigh.

"But we need you, Price, you and all of your men. This whole damn episode needs to be put to an end right now, and it simply won't happen unless everything is in place."


	15. Armada Start

AN: Long dialogue chapter this, but thanks to everybody who has read and reviewed so far. The character in introduce here, Michael Carver, is not technically an OC, but was in fact based on a Marine character removed from Call of Duty 4. I decided to give him his story! As for the question on Hunter 2-1, there may very well be a cameo as the 'crossing-paths' part of my story really goes into full effect in the coming chapters. I hope you enjoy them.

* * *

As he made his way towards his former squad, Toad was experiencing much the same emotions Archer had when he was reunited with his old unit in Credenhill, mainly the strange feeling of childish nervousness.

But unlike Archer's unit, who had continued with much the same job in Afghanistan they had been doing before Archer joined Task Force 141, the role of 1st Battalion, 7th Marines had become very different in the time he had spent away.

The Marines had been working alongside the Rangers and the SAS in an attempt to crush the anti-government militia members, still loyal to Khaled Al-Asad's totalitarian idealology, once and for all. They had been doing a good job at it, too. Of course, that good job was put on hold when those few fateful days struck, and the entire world was turned on its head.

Alongside the Rangers, the USMC were sent into Virginia to fight the invading Russians, and while the Army were eventually sent into Washington to liberate the White House, the Marines were sent further down the Potomac to eliminate the huge Spetsnaz reinforcement force that was intended to be the first of many waves of counterattacks on D.C to ensure the capital stayed under Ultranationalist control. When the electro-magnetic pulse was set off, these elite Russian Commandos realized that there was going to be no more support, of any kind and that they were all abandoned and alone. Unlike some of the Russians elsewhere, the hard-line Ultranationalist fanatics refused surrender, and fought to the final man.

In the pitch black, with no night vision, comms, optics, and no air support, the 1st Battalion 7th Marines Scout Sniper Platoon had no choice but to fight it out the old fashioned way with the Spetsnaz. After hours of relentless attacks, the Americans finally were victorious, and after a few more tense hours eventually got the news that the Rangers had taken back the White House for the United States of America, at least meaning the battle had not been in vain.

The first Marine to approach Toad was his former team leader, Lieutenant Michael Carver. At six foot three, with black hair, blue eyes and chiseled features, Carver was the essence of an all-American, and could easily have been a movie star had the look not been somewhat spoiled by his harsh Bronx accent. A veteran of the Six-Day War in the Middle East, the Lieutenant was one of the lucky ones who made it out of there without being caught up in the nuclear explosion that cost the lives of so many.

The horror of the event changed Carver for good, and prepared him for pretty much anything, even an attack on his own soil. And that was why he was the man tasked with dealing with Ultranationalist Russia's most lunatic, hard-line soldiers. The Lieutenant carried with him a cool, professional confidence that was obviously what kept him and his men going at the Potomac, and even more importantly, kept them alive.

To Carver, seeing one of his old comrades, whom recently he had been informed was KIA in Russia, was finally some welcome news.

"Well, old friend, this is a pleasant surprise." The Lieutenant said, smiling for the first time in days. "We had been told you were killed, but we all know it takes more than that to keep a Devil Dog down. Damn good to see you, son."

"Yeah, likewise, sir." Toad said. "How was your holiday?"

Carver paused for a moment, before letting out a deep sigh. "Fuckin' great, Sergeant. Not the homecoming I was expecting, really. We did it, though."

"I wish I could have been there with you guys." Toad mused. "If I'd known-"

"Don't be like that with me, Maylander." Carver interrupted. "You were doing something equally important over there, and you know it. It's just a shame that-"

"It's a shame for Shepherd he messed with the baddest motherfuckers on the planet." Came a call from behind the Lieutenant. "The audacity of the man. Knew he wouldn't get to you through, Dane."

Toad looked past Carver to see the five other Marines behind him. The one who spoke was Corporal Nick Hillson, a tall, twenty-six year old African-American from upstate New York. Taller than anyone around him and even more muscular, Hillson had a soft, ever-smiling friendly face that didn't seem quite suited to his build. During his service in various theaters over the years with the Marine Corps, he and Toad had become best friends.

Toad turned to the Corporal. "Well, well. This is a nice surprise."

"You can say that again." Hillson replied. "Surprise just to be here with the living, to be honest with you. But what the hell are you doing something in them civvies, man?"

"Oh, just something I was up to with my British friends." Toad laughed, before turning and pointing Archer out of the group of SAS troopers. "That guy you see there is Archer. Thanks to him, I'm still here."

"Yeah, so we heard." Cut in the soft southern accent of Hospitalman Second Class Nick McKaye. Stocky, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, the team's Corpsman was noticeable by his longer hair, facial stubble and a helmet cover and body armor in M81 camouflage alongside his MARPAT fatigues.

"You did?" Toad asked.

McKaye grinned. "Oh yeah. We've heard all about your little exploits with your little limey pals. Hot shit. As you can see, your little Task Force isn't so little any more."

"And this-" Said the youngest of the group, Private Max Leigh, a boot whose first combat experience was in Virginia. For the only man of the group who was unacquainted with Toad, it was quite a place to start. Leigh paused as AV-8B Harrier roared overhead. "-And this isn't the whole picture."

"Well, that's outstanding." Toad said. "Always knew Task Force 141 wasn't dead yet."

McKaye smiled and nodded. "Fox Alpha. After that nightmare in Virginia, this should be a nice break for us. Those One-Four-One boys give you one of those callsigns?"

"Yeah, of course. They call me Toad."

"I like it, Toad." Carver said, chuckling to himself along with his team. "I think we all know that's gonna stick."

Toad shrugged. "I don't mind if it does, frankly."

"Well, I like it. Callsigns or not, you think we can really end this thing?" Corporal Hillson asked, changing the subject as he eyed four more Seahawks racing across the horizon.

The second Corporal, a twenty-eight year old, sarcastic, blue-eyed Bostonian named Rick Janis, laughed mockingly at Hillson's question.

"You know." Janis said. "Say we do everything right, and everything goes exactly like our commanding officers hope, yeah. What happens next? Jack shit, just five more years of build-up until this bullshit kicks off all over again. Fucking failing species that we are."

Toad sighed. "Great to see your refreshing optimism remains, Corporal."

Janis grinned as his response. "Oorah."

Lt. Carver cleared his throat loudly, interrupting any more conversation before it could begin.

"Alright, Marines." The grizzled officer said. "This is all very lovely, but there really is no time for grab-assing. We have a job to do, and right now I'm seeing a Marine without a rifle, and it's getting me depressed. Let's go."

As the Marines walked away, Toad watched the yellow shirted Navy Taxi Director, waving a sleek, grey Marines F/A -18 Hornet into position at one of the catapults. With a loud whirr, the jet blast deflector rose behind the rear of the multirole fighter, ending with a hearty clunk as it reached its position. The green shirted Navy Catapult Crew then connected the nose gear with the shuttle via a shear bolt.

Another yellow-shirted Sailor, this one a Shooter, signaled the pilot, Lt. D'Amato, to go full throttle, and the Hornet's twin engines became a deafening, piercing wail. The shooter then raised his gloved left hand, palm out, with five fingers up, and D'Amato hit the afterburners, two streaks of flame roaring from the rear of the aircraft.

With this, the Shooter saluted the pilot, and put two fingers to the deck, giving the launch signal. D'Amato saluted in response and prepared for launch.

"There goes one of ours." Toad observed.

"Oorah." Carver responded. "Sexy, ain't it."

Toad smiled back, and before he had even regained concentration the Hornet had screamed past down the fight deck and rocketed into the sky. Judging by the payload the F/A-18 was carrying, it more than obvious that it was going on something far more important than a simple morale-boosting 'Moto pass'.

"You'll be going where they're going, Sergeant." Carver informed. "Apparently the powers that be want to keep you with the prima donna squad."

"Oh. So where are you heading?" Toad questioned.

"Some shithole suburb of St. Petersburg." Hillson answered, crossing his arms and making no attempt to hide his disappointment at not being sent into the heart of the action. "Following some lead with the Rangers for the time being. We'll be back, so don't go thinking that you've lost us that easy, pal."

"Oh, not for one second."

Carver gestured for Toad to follow him. "Come on Marine, we'll get you some kit. Then there's someone I think you might be interested to meet."

* * *

As Toad was being reacquainted, Archer, Mercer, and the SAS team were making their way through the bowels of the _Stennis_. Under the low hum of the ship, they passed through various dark hallways until finally emerging into a wider, brighter room, covered in blueprints and maps of Russia. Most importantly, this was the meeting room, and was packed with many men of various Special Forces regiments from throughout the world.

As Archer entered the room, Ozone Emerged from the group, now dressed in his JTF2 CADPAT fatigues. It was immediately obvious he didn't look at all pleased with the men he was approaching.

"Where you been then, man?" Ozone growled, smoldering with rage. "Was I too much of a liability for you to come along on your little missions then? Or be even informed on where you were going, at least?"

"Look, man." Archer replied in a calming tone in an attempt to cool Ozone's standoffish behavior. "You were injured. You needed rest, and the second time I disappeared I was basically kidnapped. There was no way of me letting you know what we were up to."

"I guess." Ozone said, through gritted teeth, his breathing slowing as he calmed. "I guess you're right, as usual."

Archer took a moment to pause; knowing what he was about to say would not go down well.

"To be honest, mate." He said, "I think you still need some time."

As predicted, Ozone did not react well, his features crumpling with rage. "Maybe I do." he snarled. "Maybe I should've just died out there like a man, died saving Scarecrow and all those others better than myself. And better than you at that."

Archer paused, trying and failing to make eye contact with his troubled colleague. "Please, Ozone. Listen to-"

Ozone held up a hand. "Enough!"

Ozone, not wanting to hear any more, shoulder-barged his way past Archer and stormed off down the corridor and out of sight. Mercer looked back at the Canadian, shaking his head and waiting until he was out of earshot before speaking.

"What's his problem?" he asked.

Archer sighed. "Ozone was one of ours, one the one-four-one I mean. He lost his best friend in Russia, at the safehouse. His name was Scarecrow, and he was a good kid. I'd hate to remind Ozone that even if he made it, Shepherd would've got him anyway."

Mercer gulped. "Christ almighty."

"Yeah, I know. But he's strong; he was coping to begin with, and he'll make it through this thing. I'm sure of it. I'd hope so anyway, after that little run-in Toad and I had with Shadow Company during the night at Makarov's place. I never told Ozone about it, he was passed out in the basement."

"Maybe if you told him he'd change. Maybe he just wants to get back out there, and get some for his buddy. The days he's had just sitting around doing fuck all except think can't have been good for him." Mercer wondered.

"I hope you're right, mate."

"Don't worry. He usually is." Bishop cut in, smiling.

By now, the presence SAS men in the room had caused quite a stir, especially now that everybody in this room knew Archer was in the original Task Force 141. But he was not the only one, something he found out moments later. Approaching down the opposite hallway, and joined by Toad were eight black-clad Special Forces operatives, four of them U.S. Navy SEALs, the others British SBS, or the Special Boat Service. Three of the SEALs, to Archer's astonishment, were people he by principle had considered dead.

Two were Caucasian, the taller one with black hair going by the callsign Zach. The second was his ever-present wingman, the stockier, shaven-headed Sailor known as Robot.

The most prominent one, however, was the African-American SEAL named Worm. Worm looked very different to his last meeting with Archer, and even though he was smiling like a lunatic he was somewhat less friendly looking than Archer remembered, due to half of his face being spoiled by some particularly spectacular scarring.

All three SEALs, upon seeing Archer, bellowed his name in union and took turns to embrace the seemingly stunned Brit, who just stood frozen in shock.

"I…I don't. What? How?" Archer mumbled to laughs from the Americans.

"Well, me and Robot here were sent back to our old team for an errand that was intended to be temporary." Zach informed. "Turned out to be quite the blessing, I guess."

"And I had some time off due to my little injuries. Burns from getting your top boy out of the can, buddy." Worm said. "God bless the US Navy, huh?"

"Yeah. Talk about taking flak from your employers." Archer added.

"Hooyah. Try as they might, they won't be getting me off the payroll without a fight though."

"To be honest, Worm, I had been informed that you were dead." Archer said. "But that's become the story of Task Force 141 hasn't it? I'll only be convinced that one of us is dead forever when I'm told they are absolutely, positively still alive."

Archer then turned to Toad, now wearing MARPAT with 'U.S. MARINES' and 'MAYLANDER' proudly emblazoned on the opposite pockets. It was a look he hadn't sported since getting off the bus at selection at Firebase Phoenix in Afghanistan, a life ago.

"How was your reunion, Toad?" Archer asked.

"Lovely, sir."

"Well, sorry it was only temporary. Gents, I think it's time to get down to business, Russia ain't going to liberate itself."


	16. Shadows

Six Hours Later

40 Miles Northwest of Moscow

"Regroup on me."

Hearing Captain Price's order over the comms, Archer couldn't help but smile. He had been secretly very excited about fighting alongside the veteran Captain, having missed out on any previous opportunity to do so during his career in The Regiment so far. MacTavish would also be participating, and it had been long since he had been Archer's team leader. Far too long.

As he hid his parachute, the only trace of the team's HAHO jump, from view of the nearby dirt path, he knew it would be wrong to feel anything resembling confidence, but with the team he had, he couldn't help it.

This would certainly be the most dangerous mission he had partaken in yet, that mission involving driving a stake straight through the heart of Ultranationalist high command in the place they felt most safe. From then on the war would be unwinnable for what remained of Vorshevsky's regime, and then the Task Force could set their sights back on Makarov. To say this was a tall order was understatement of the century, but with the two best Captains the Special Air Service had ever seen in control, it seemed less impossible than it sounded.

Archer could see Price from his position now, and after a quick check of his heavily modified C8 Carbine, made his way over to him. Archer would be the first to arrive at his position, followed by Ozone and Mercer and his team. Toad followed soon after.

Price looked around at his men "Right, is this all of us then?"

"Yes, it is." MacTavish answered, before laughing. "Well, that's the first time that's gone perfectly. Good thing it did too, it'll be a while before we get the support of all those shiny fighter jets here in bandit country."

"Indeed." Price said, "Let's just hope it all goes this well. The safehouse we think Ivanov and his cabinet are hiding out at isn't far. Let's go."

The team kept away from the nearby paths, moving silently through the dense woodland, using night vision goggles, heartbeat sensors and thermal sights to detect any hostiles. Through the grainy, morbid green hue of the world around him, Archer could hardly recognize his team, faceless under their helmets, goggles, and scarves wrapped around their faces. Was it not for their uniquely customised weapons and uniforms, the men would be completely unrecognizable.

It was another ten minutes before the men were rewarded by four squares of yellowish light from a guard post up ahead, and each one of them started to feel the adrenaline pumping.

"We're getting close." Captain Price said quietly. "We're going to have to hit every building we see. Can't leave nothing to chance."

"My heartbeat sensor reads at least four tangos in the target building, sir." Toad informed, taking a momentary glance into the house where the Ultranationalist soldiers were sitting around bored, drinking and making conversation. "Looks about right to me."

"Right." MacTavish replied in a whisper. "Shall we cut the power to this place first?"

"Don't bother." Mercer suggested. "The Ultranationalists have a real hard-on for night vision and thermal these days, we'll just be giving them time to prepare if we turn the lights out."

"Indeed. " Price nodded in agreement. "Very well, there's the door. As you know we don't need these men alive so don't hold back, breach and clear."

As the demolitions expert Cpl. Steyn reached the guard post, he reattached his NVGs to the mount on his helmet, letting his Diemaco hang in its sling as he grabbed a frame charge before moving into position by the door in the centre of the building.

Toad tapped the SAS man on the shoulder. "Got your back, buddy."

Steyn held his breath for the next few moments as Ozone and Archer moved into place on the other side of the door, the Canadian giving the signal with a grim smile, to which the response was a nod of approval. It was time.

"Knock, knock." Steyn muttered as he attached the breaching charge to the wall.

The next milliseconds went like minutes as it seemingly took forever for the explosive to blow, but then before Archer had any time to think more the door was destroyed and he was already following Steyn inside the building, firing two bursts from his Diemaco C8 at the Ultranationalist to his left, and by the time his target had hit the floor and Archer had caught his breath, he looked around to find the breach already over, the man in the middle of the room killed by Steyn and the two seated soldiers slumped over at the table, neutralized by Toad and Ozone.

"First floor clear!" Toad growled.

Archer immediately set about checking the identification of the dead men, to make sure if any of the bodies were in the slight possibility that of a high-value target, when he was cut off by a loud creak from the floorboards above. He looked back at Captain Price, who had obviously heard it too upon entering the house.

"Deal with it, Archer. Mercer, you go with him."

"Yes sir." The two men replied.

Archer went first, hurtling up the stairway, which was made from wood so rotten he wondered for a moment if it could take the weight of both him and Mercer. Before he could wonder any more however, he had reached the closed door at the top and aimed a kick.

Before his foot could make contact, the door was thrown open, pushing Archer to the side and causing Mercer to immediately hit the deck. A wise move, as if he had been any slower than lightning fast he would already be dead. The Russian in the room above had his arm around the frame of the door as he blind-fired his AK-47 wildly. Splinters of wood and plaster exploded around Mercer as the rounds flew centimeters above his head, ripping through the walls of the stairway. Archer knew he had to act fast.

Grabbing the door with both hands, he slammed it with fool force on the exposed right forearm of the Ultranationalist, and with the desired crunch of bone and yelp that followed, the Russian's rifle fell to the floor.

Archer didn't hesitate, throwing the door back open with his USP .45 already drawn to find the injured man going for a sidearm of his own. Archer doubled tapped the pistol twice into the torso of his assailant, who stumbled backwards before a final, well-aimed shot to the head put him down for good. A calm survey of the three rooms on the floor confirmed he was the only one who had been up there.

"Second floor clear." Archer informed the comms.

"Roger that." MacTavish replied. "You two alright?"

"Yeah, fine thanks."

Archer turned back to Mercer, who had propped himself up against the doorway and had lit himself a cigarette, and gave the wide-eyed look of a man who was happy just to be alive.

"Jesus Christ." Mercer wheezed. "Thanks, man."

Archer Shrugged. "No problem. Close one, huh?"

"You can say that again." Mercer replied. "You've still got it, Arch. Just like the old days, mate."

Archer smiled. "Hell yeah. Now let's regroup with the others, we don't have all evening."

As Mercer and Archer returned downstairs, Ozone was reloading his FN SCAR-H rifle, and glanced over towards Toad, who was anxiously guarding the doorway, his night vision monitoring the blackness outside and the stock of his unmoving scoped M4A1 pressed hard into his shoulder like an extension of his body.

"Hey, Toad." Ozone said. "I gotta say I fuckin' enjoyed that, bro. Good to be back in the saddle."

At first Toad did not reply, the direction of his gaze not changing but a smile slowly beginning to creep across his face. Eventually he lifted the goggles back up, and looked at the Canadian.

"That's what I'm talkin' about. We got our Ozone back, then?" He said.

Ozone grinned. "Oh yeah."

The attention of the two men was then turned back to Archer and Mercer, who had re-entered the room and approached Price and MacTavish.

"So, anybody of worth up there then?" Price queried.

Mercer shook his head. "No, sir."

"Very well. No time to waste, let's move to the next house. Toad, take point."

Toad exited the building, leaving his night vision in place, as the illuminated courtyard would have made them a liability. The various buildings around the area looked as if they may have been a farm complex until a few years ago, but had obviously been requisitioned.

The Marine strode towards the next building, the sound of Russian rock music blaring out from a radio within covering his footsteps across the gravel. As he reached the window, he gave one careful glance in, and immediately froze.

"What is it, Toad?" Whispered the voice of MacTavish behind him.

"They're dead, sir. All of them are, it looks like we've been beaten to it."

"What? The Loyalist's weren't meant to-" Soap cut himself off at the sight multiple red laser dots zero in on Toad's head and chest, and his blood turned to ice in shock. Someone had known of their arrival.

"Oh shit." Soap breathed, noticing Toad's similar reaction to the red dots now covering the both of them.

"_Drop your weapons_!" a deep voice ordered in heavily accented Russian, where it was coming from hidden in the blackness of the densely forested hillside above them.

By now, Steyn and Price had already joined them, followed by the rest of the team. Unlike Soap and Toad, they could actually see the men on the hill with their night vision and thermal scopes.

"Hold your fire!" Price ordered the team. "We can't take the risk!"

Up ahead, the Russians had stormed into view, although they were still hardly visible due to their all-black fatigues. Obviously upon hearing the sound of Price's voice they had eased up, and could easily be heard talking to each other in hushed tones.

"They're very hesitant." Toad whispered at Soap. "Think they might be Loyalists?"

"Don't let your guard down." MacTavish curtly replied.

There was a long silence before one of the Russians spoke again. This time, it was the team leader, who took a hesitant step forward.

"Are you British?" he asked.

"We are!" Price shouted back. "Well, most of us are."

A pause.

The team leader turned to Price. "Well?"

The Captain looked blankly back at him. "Well, what?"

The Russian gave an uneasy smile under his night vision. "Well, don't you have a challenge?"

"We do." Price said. "Ellipse."

The team leader let his MP5 hang in its sling, holding both hands high into the air.

"Executive." He answered, looking nervously around for the few seconds it took to see if his answer was the correct one.

"Well, you are right." Price said, lowering his M4A1. "Stand down, 141."

In response, the Russian waved to his men to lower their weapons too, and they slowly made they way down to his position as Toad and MacTavish took one long sigh of relief at seeing the red dots finally disappear and the men behind them walk into view.

"So, who exactly the hell are you anyway?" Soap asked.

"How rude of me." The team leader said, removing his NV up to look at MacTavish. "I am Lieutenant Marki Kirshov, F.S.B."

MacTavish smirked. "Why, of course you are."

"F.S.B?" Toad cut in, looking bemused. "Aren't you supposed to be working for the government? The _Ultranationalist_ government, I might add?"

Kirshov laughed mockingly. "What government? The bloated corpse of Vorshevsky's dream that Prime Minister Ivanov thinks he can resurrect? That's not a government, that's a farce."

Kirshov paused, before looking back at Toad.

"You look familiar." The Lieutenant said. "You're the American they call Toad, right?"

"Yeah. How the hell did you know that?"

Kirshov scoffed. "I am F.S.B, my friend, there's not much I don't know. I have colleagues who say great things about you and your associate Archer. Has he been kind enough to join us?"

"I have." Archer answered sternly. "What's it to you?"

"Oh, I am honoured." The Russian said, unmoved by Archer's standoffish behaviour. "I see you are not the leader this time, Leftenant. How pleasant of the Americans to give your beloved Captains a stay of execution."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll learn eventually. As I am sure you will agree we have more pressing issues right now. Follow me."

"Why should we trust you?" MacTavish said gruffly, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, unless you want to explore the scores of buildings we already have hit, be my guest." Kirshov insisted. "Otherwise we can both get this job done together. Your choice, Captain."

As the Russians made their way back up the hillside, Price and MacTavish made their decision, and reluctantly followed.


	17. The Man from the FSB

Treading their way up the seemingly endless series of hills, the 141 stayed silent, only exchanging occasional uneasy glances with each other as the Russians talked amongst themselves. Archer's thoughts turned to when he was back in the safehouse in Georgia, and Kamarov had told him of the elements of the F.S.B that were assisting the Loyalist cause. He could only hope this Lieutenant Kirshov really one of them, was telling the truth, and was really going to assist him. But the FSB was a mysterious organization at the best of times, a shadowy modern remnant of the Soviet Union's feared KGB, and they would obviously have a motive of their own. Looking around at his men, it was obvious they were thinking similar thoughts. The only one who showed no emotion whatsoever was Price, who remained a blank, trained expression that nobody else could read.

The uncomfortable silence was broken as they finally reached the top of a hill and were greeted by the low humming rumble of engines. Sitting between a complex of buildings were two flat-black GAZ-2975 high-tech jeeps and a space-framed fast attack vehicle that somewhat resembled a dune buggy from a _Mad Max_ film, fitted with two heavy machine guns fitted for both the front and rear passenger. In the courtyard were the obvious signs of a firefight and gleaming pools of blood, but the bodies had obviously been moved. Around the area were even more F.S.B agents, their figures silhouetted by the beaming headlights of the jeeps. As they got closer, one of the men approached Lieutenant Kirshov, who even in the darkness obviously carried a disappointed expression on his face.

"We have found nothing, sir." The man informed, in gravelly-voiced Russian. "Plenty of Ultranationalist soldiers, but no Ivanov."

"Very well." Kirshov replied. "Keep searching, he can't have got far."

"Yes sir." The F.S.B man acknowledged, before turning around to bark instructions at a group of his men, who immediately ran back through the forest.

Price looked at Kirshov, not entirely sure what to think of him as he carefully observed the F.S.B man's body language as the Russian turned to speak to him.

"Ivanov is not quite as stupid as you might think." Kirov said. "He trusts no-one and knows we have all the Intel on him, and that we have the location of all the nooks and crannies where he may want to lay low. He's constantly on the move, but this 25-mile radius is locked down. One thing we know is he hasn't escaped, and he won't."

Price nodded. "Alright. But how do you know there aren't elements of your organization that would rather disrupt everything?"

Kirshov smiled. "Why, of course, Captain. It would be hugely ignorant of me to think otherwise, and-"

"But, I don't understand." Archer cut in. "Why would you want to help us and the Loyalists? I mean, only a few days ago we were briefed that you would be the ones waiting for us in Monaco, and as far as I knew the people we engaged there were yours."

"No, no. It wasn't us." Kirshov said, grinning. "I assure you that if those men were mine, you would most certainly not be here right now."

"Oh, really?" Archer sneered, striding forward as if he was about to lash out.

Price shook his head disapprovingly before giving Archer a disapproving glance. "Now is not the time for this, nor the place. We seemingly have the same job to do, so let's get on with it. Anyway, where the hell is Kamarov?"

"Not far," The Lieutenant replied, pointing out a small complex of barns and houses in the valley below, the shroud of trees and foliage around them making them almost invisible. "There is also somebody else that I want you to meet."

Already on the move, Toad turned to face Kirshov. "Well, what are we waiting for, _comrade?_"

* * *

The walk to what was apparently the Loyalist camp was a short one, but it felt like it was going on forever. After some time, the buildings the Russian had pointed out earlier became visible once more through the dense vegetation, and the tension began to rise.

"The moment of truth is approaching, lads." Mercer said, hushed over the comms. "I'm ready."

"Me too." Ozone replied. "Just give the word, and-"

"Shut up and stay frosty!" MacTavish snarled, glaring back at the two soldiers almost as if they were two misbehaving students on a school trip. Much to Archer amusement, the two immediately straightened up, as if they were playing up the parts.

The team emerged from the forest and rejoined a dirt road that led to a large metal gate, and two men emerged from either side, carrying Kalashnikovs. As they stepped into the light it was obvious they wore very different clothing to that of the F.S.B men, and Archer's fears began to fade. These people looked very much like Loyalists.

"Who are you?" one of the guards barked. "Identify yourself!"

"It's me." Kirshov replied calmly, with both hands held high. "It's Kirshov. Come on guys, I was only here a few hours ago!"

The two guards looked at each other, before relaxing and lowering their guns.

"Oh, of course Lieutenant." Said the second guard, his tone somewhat embarrassed. "Welcome back. I see you have brought our friends from the West back with you."

"Indeed he has." Price answered.

"Alright." The guard said. "Well, Kamarov is waiting. Please, follow me."

With the word "Kamarov" spoken, the Task Force finally took one collective sigh of relief. The two guards led them though what must have been a small base of operations, with a mixture of Loyalist and F.S.B vehicles and soldiers darting around in all directions. Finally, the group entered a dimly lit room that was dominated by a huge table, and a map of the area that stretched right across it. Sitting at this table were two men, one of whom was the instantly recognizable Sgt. Kamarov.

"Ah, here they are!" Kamarov beamed, instantly rising to his feet, his arms outstretched as if he was welcoming the Task Force to a party rather than a battle. "My friends, it is so good to see you!"

"Yeah, likewise." MacTavish replied with a grumble. "We weren't sure whether your little friend here was trustworthy or not."

Kamarov looked perplexed. "Marki Kirshov? Untrustworthy? That's something he most certainly isn't, he's been my man in the F.S.B for years! He even helped my beloved Natasha in officer training. I'd trust him with anything."

"Yeah, well, we weren't to know that, Kamarov."

"No, no, of course. I could not have divulged the information on our F.S.B operations, even to you. The information was far too sensitive."

"Yes, perfectly understandable."

Kamarov nodded, before looking over at the man seated next to him. "Anyway, gentlemen, this is a man I am very glad you are able to meet. Task Force, this is Commander Gav Davidenko."

"Thank you, Kamarov." The Commander said as he stood up. "I must say, it is an honor to meet Task Force 141 at last."

"Well, what's left of it." Price said. "But thank you, Commander."

"Oh, from what I've been hearing it's had quite the resurrection. Anyway, I shall not ramble, Price. You are here for Ivanov, are you not?"

"Indeed we are." Archer answered.

Davidenko smirked. "Forget him, for now. He's a minnow in the grand scale of things, and I know what you really want is to catch the White Whale once and for all. Well, I can get you to it. I can get you to Makarov."


	18. Seeing Is Not Believing

Author's note.

I am pleased to say this story is officially off hiatus after my computer troubles for a couple of months stopped me from updating. Sorry for the long wait!

* * *

**20 miles south of Marrakesh, Morocco**

The sun rose upon the valley, the seemingly endless desert, and upon the lone Nissan jeep that sat stationary upon the crest of a hill of sand. Along with the lone man that stood leaning against it, this was only trace of civilization for miles around.

The occupant had not slept, and he wouldn't have been able to even if he wanted it. The searing heat of the days here was unbearable, and the unforgiving, freezing nights were right at the opposite end of the scale, making this one very easy place to die alone. But this wasn't on his mind. He was waiting for someone, and wasn't going to let anyone sneak up on him. With his AK-47 in its sling, and a pair of Bushnell binoculars in his hands, he continued with what he been doing for the endless past hours and scanned the horizon, patiently waiting for the dust trail of an approaching vehicle, only pausing occasionally to clear sand from the lenses and his sunglasses.

The man checked his watch. _Any second now, _he told himself. Sure enough, he was proven right only moments later with the telling glint of the sun reflecting off a windshield in the far distance. Focusing his optics revealed the vehicle to be a white Toyota Hilux pickup, hardly uncommon around these parts, snaking it's way up the valley with cloud of dust in tow. A look towards the cab revealed two passengers, and try as they might to dress like them, neither looked anything like a local. The man brought his binoculars down, grimacing at the sight. _There was only meant to be one, _He thought._ What are they playing at? _

As the Hilux got ever closer, he readied his AK-47, aiming it right for the windshield of the truck. If these people were going to try anything funny, he was ready. As the vehicle reached about 100 meters from his position it finally stopped, the rattly diesel engine idling as both doors opened and driver and passenger got out, both holding their hands up.

"Don't shoot!" The driver shouted, his accent obviously Russian. "It's us, Mr. Klossovsky!"

The former Russian President stayed unblinking, keeping a tight grip on his assault rifle "Why are there two of you? I was told I always had the Lieutenant to report to. Where is she?"

"We work under Commander Davidenko as well." The F.S.B Agent explained, his tone calm despite the weapon in his face. "Lieutenant Monotova is not in the country, as I am sure you are aware the state of play has changed."

"Changed enough to render our operation insignificant?" Klossovsky looked shocked, angry even at the thought of being discarded. "Enough for him to send two grunts to deal with me? Or is it just me who is now insignificant in the minds of your superiors? That snake Davidenko found a new puppet to play with?"

"Don't jump to conclusions." The Agent snapped. "You know Russia is in the grip of civil war, and we need you, and the information you have on Makarov, right now. Directive Collateral must be wrapped up."

"I understand." Klossovsky said with a sigh, lowering the Kalashnikov.

"Good, I didn't mean to alarm you." The F.S.B man assured. "Now, Can you take us to Makarov's last known whereabouts?"

"I can do better than that." Klossovsky breathed, looking back towards his jeep, a thousand thoughts of the possible outcome of the next few hours rushing through his head. "I can get you someone who can give you his location right now. We'll take my car."

* * *

With its aging turbodiesel engine noisily spluttering in protest, Klossovsky's Nissan Patrol pulled up in a neat suburban area of the outskirts of Marrakesh. Before the car had even come to a halt, the Agent sitting next to him had thrown his door open, and was just about ready to leap out when he felt Klossovsky grab him by the shoulder, pulling him back to his seat.

"You wait here until I tell you otherwise." Klossovsky ordered, staring the agent direct the eyes with a dark, stone-like authoritarian glare. "We do this my way, or we don't do this at all, get me?"

"Yes." The Agent replied. Roman Klossovsky was a hugely intimidating man, even for this highly experienced operative. "I mean, yes of course. We'll wait if it means we get Makarov's location."

"You will, but this may take some time."

The Agent nodded. "As long as it takes."

Klossovsky exited the vehicle and hurried his way down the road, covering his lower face with his desert scarf as he turned on his heel, rushing into an alleyway and out of the sight of the two men in the Jeep. As he looked back to check that the F.S.B men had kept their word and were not tailing him, Roman Klossovsky knew that this was the point of no return. But he had made his decision long ago. Removing his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he scrolled down the list of contact names until, finally, he reached the name _Vladimir_.

Klossovsky took a deep breath.

Then he selected to phone the contact, and waited a few moments.

The contact's number did not lead to Vladimir Makarov. Instead, the number led to a different cell phone, that, right now, just happened to be wired up to a plastic explosive device connected to the fuel tank of the Nissan Patrol he had been driving only moments ago. The two F.S.B Agents would have been dead before they even suspected a thing; vaporized in the explosion that was so immense it almost threw Klossovsky to the ground, even at his far distance. The resulting fireball and cloud of flaming debris towered high over the nearby buildings, and the deafening, thunderous roar of the blast shattered every window in sight. As the screams of bystanders rose and the wail of Police sirens became audible in the distance, Klossovsky disappeared into the shadows.

_Directive Collateral_. After his meeting in Moscow, his men, who called themselves his 'Loyalists' had refused to divulge the details of this top-secret operation to him, and he knew exactly why. He was going to be part of that collateral, just one of the many sacrificial lambs to be slaughtered in order to appease a greater good, bringing the war with America to an end. He didn't mind dying for his country; in fact he welcomed it, considering it the greatest honor. But he couldn't live with the other part of the collateral, Russia itself. The F.S.B and the Loyalists were being, in his mind, unforgivably weak-willed, and were currently on the verge of allowing a full-scale American invasion on Russian soil. He knew that there were already Black Ops teams stalking around there, and soon enough there would be hundreds of thousands of invaders following them with nothing more than hatred and revenge in their hearts. What was left of the Ultranationalist party would be quickly torn asunder, but at too great a cost. The Americans would rip his beloved country to shreds, and his cowardly allies stand back powerless, before attempting to start Russia anew with the unrecognizable pieces of what was left.

Roman Klossovsky was not about to let that happen. If it meant he had to betray the men following him, and sell his soul to the devil named Makarov to stop it, so be it.


	19. The Silent Storm

"Frontrunner this is Bravo Six." Captain Price informed over the radio.

"Bravo 6, this is Frontrunner." The slightly gruff, middle-aged sounding American voice of the Headquarters radioman replied. "Roger that, send Traffic."

"We've had a change of situation here, over. We have met up with friendly Loyalist forces in the area as planned. Be advised, as well as this we've also been aided by F.S.B operatives, over."

"F.S.B?" The startled alarm in the radioman's voice was more than evident. "What the f...erm…Solid Copy, Bravo Six…Uh…standby, over."

The ominous silence that befell the next few tense moments turned the atmosphere on the ground in Russia thicker than any firefight, each man nervously glancing around at each other as they awaited a reply, and each receiving the same blank expression. The thought of the F.S.B helping the Task Force had apparently completely stumped their superiors.

"I bet you guys fifty bucks they go for deniability now." Ozone said.

Toad rolled his eyes. "Shit, Ozone. You don't think that's how it was going to be anyway? Come on…"

The Canadian took a sharp intake of breath, staring up at the ceiling before finally laughing at the situation. "Ah, fuck yeah. Wouldn't have it any other way."

"I have no idea about this Raptor bloke." Mercer added, restlessly pacing the length of the room, which he dominated with his imposing frame. "But if there's one person we can count on, it's the Colonel. Brickfield won't go letting some yank fuck us over, I mean, no offense Toad."

Archer looked over at Mercer from his seat the table, his eyes narrowing somewhat. "Now, now, Jamie, don't start-"

"Oh no, really, none taken. " Toad interrupted. "And you shouldn't go worrying about these here Loyalists. Half this room can sing their praises. I mean, thanks to them, Ozone is here with us and not dead, or even worse, he could have made it back to the Great White North."

"Perish the thought." Ozone said. "Hell no, I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here."

"Captain Price, this is Raptor." The American commanding officer finally announced, ending any further discussion. "Is the commanding officer of these so-called friendly forces a certain Commander Davidenko?"

"Yes, sir. How exactly did you know that, sir?"

"Well, Price, it looks like you and your men are very lucky, in that you are not just about to be shot." Raptor didn't audibly give a sigh of relief over the comms, but his almost complete change in pitch was very telling. "Commander Davidenko is a very reliable ally of mine. Why he is where you are, I'm sure you and he can enlighten me later. Just be glad you found him. "

"Oh, we are. Davidenko says he has Intel that could lead us to Makarov. Interrogative, should we proceed with the current mission as planned or follow this lead, over?"

"Your call, Captain. But I would take any leads with a pinch of salt. You know how much of a shadow dweller Makarov is, only venturing out of the dark when he feels the need to make a very big mess in a very public place. I'd say if the Intel our mutual friend has is more than thirty seconds old, Makarov's probably moved on to a different country."

"What do you suggest?"

"It's still a lead. I would suggest splitting into two teams. If Leftenant Mercer feels up to it, his unit will be put in charge of taking down Ivanov while your team tracks down Makarov, over."

"Two places at once." Archer grumbled. "Sounds very familiar, huh?"

"Oorah." Toad said, his expression grim.

"For god's sake, stop it!" MacTavish bellowed, his fists clenched and his face crumpled with anger. "That's an order!"

Despite the Scottish Captain's insistencies, even Price himself looked unsure, even slightly nervous, at Raptor's suggestion. Eventually, he spoke, his voice showing no sign of his tension. "Sir, I do believe any clue, no matter how small, should be followed no matter-"

"COMMANDER!" The interruption came from Lieutenant Kirshov, bursting through the double doors of the room with a look of sheer and utter terror on his face, and any trace of the confident F.S.B Officer the Task Force had met up with gone, replaced with a terrified young man way out of his element.

"Lieutenant Kirshov?" Davidenko rose from his seat, puzzled at the sight of one of his men completely falling to pieces in front of his very eyes. "What the hell is going on?"

"Sir, sir…" The Lieutenant was hyperventilating under the pressure. "I don't know…I don't know how to say this, but we've been doubled crossed. Agents Bryansky and Yashvili, they've been murdered! Klossovsky, he fucked us!"

"_Nyet!_" Sergeant Kamarov bellowed in protest. "That's impossible! Klossovsky would never-"

"He has!" Kirshov yelled, beside himself with the fear of the unknown. "You have to put your blind loyalty behind you Sergeant! He's gone rogue!"

Kamarov smashed his fist down on to the table with an almighty smash. "How dare you! You even mention him-"

"Silence!" Davidenko ordered fiercely. "I am sorry, Kamarov, but I must believe that this news is the truth for now. You may wish to deny it, but we all know just how much Roman has changed recently."

"From what I saw, the man is pretty much morally bankrupt." Archer said, to an immediate, poisonous glare of hostility from Kamarov. "I'm sorry, but-"

"Look, we can squabble later." Davidenko's voice was calm and firm. "But right now we must assume the very worst. And that means we are no longer safe here, as this is a former safehouse of Klossovsky and it wouldn't take a master tactician to assume he'll hand the details of this place over to our enemies. I don't intend to drag you down with me; gentlemen, and I still believe this war can be won without our former President. But we must leave. Right now."


	20. Behind the Sights

"Indeed, Commander." Price concurred. "We've got to move. Have you got some transport for us?"

"Oh, why of course." Davidenko's tone was sincere, in way that was almost mocking, as he led the way outside and down a long dirt path. "You'll have to take your pick, Captain."

"Davidenko's allies have supplied with some of the best helicopters and armor the modern Russian military inventory has to offer." Kamarov explained. "It's not just the F.S.B. It's everyone. There are elements of the Loyalist movement throughout all parts of the Russian armed forces, even the government. We're tearing the Ultranationalists apart from all directions. It is truly glorious!"

MacTavish raised an eyebrow. "Maybe, Kamarov. But it's only glorious if these men are Loyalist in the sense that they wish to remove the Ultranationalists, not in the sense that they will blindly follow Klossovsky into every battle. I don't want to be fighting two armies at once today, and I especially want you on my side."

Kamarov gave the Scot a wide-eyed looked, shocked at the suggestion that he may become and enemy. "Of course! Look, Captain, I may be a Loyalist, but to me that means I am loyal to Russia first, and the capitalist government second. Klossovsky is not the be-all-and-end-all of what it means to be one of us. But I still believe he is our ally. There will be a reason."

"So what, the cold-blooded murder of two men under my command was what?" Davidenko questioned angrily. "A means to an end?"

"No, no. Of course not." Kamarov replied. "I would never think of condoning such a thing. But it makes no sense to me why Klossovsky would ally himself with the man responsible for the slaughter of his countrymen, and bringing about the events that led to a full-scale war. You saw how he reacted to seeing Andrei Kosygin, and he was but a small catalyst in the whole situation. He has a plan."

"Well, as long as that plan doesn't involve killing any more allies, I'm happy." The Russian Commander quipped.

_A means to an end_. For Captain John Price, the discussion between the two Russians was bringing back the very worst memories of his life. It had been some time now since the raid on the Petropavlovsk Naval Base, and since he had commandeered a Russian submarine to launch an SS-N-23 SLBM nuclear missile at the Capital of the United States, detonating in the atmosphere. The resulting electro-magnetic pulse ended any Ultranationalist hopes of swift victory in Washington, but at the cost of the lives of hundreds, possibly thousands, of American soldiers, Marines and pilots who would consider it an honor to be called his ally. Now and then, he would catch Toad off guard, seeing a look of pure malice in the usually upbeat and friendly Marine's eyes. He knew he hated him, and he knew he really wanted to kill him for what he did, and most of all he understood. The actions of that one fateful decision ate away at his very soul far worse than the five years of brutal torture he endured at the hands of the Ultranationalists. Was it all worth it? The battle was not yet won, and the cost would only rise.

The grizzled Captain's thoughts were interrupted by the harsh voice of Commander Davidenko, bringing him back down to earth. "Enough talk for now, Kamarov. We have arrived, our transport awaits us."

As the men emerged from the dirt path, they walked into a clearing that housed a large makeshift hangar. Surrounding this building were scores of Loyalists, Three Mi-8 transports, various motor vehicles, and inside the hangar itself, three helicopter gunships. One of these was the distinctive Kamov Ka-52 _Alligator_. A distinctive, compact, coaxial rotor machine, the KA-52 was armed to the teeth and fitted with the most advanced technology of any Russian helicopter, arguably any helicopter currently in service. The second was the unmistakable shape of the slightly more typical but still viciously efficient Mil Mi-28 _Havoc_, the Russian answer to the American Apache. The third was what appeared to be the usual MI-24 _Hind_. On closer inspection however, this was revealed to be something quite different. It was a Mi-24 _SuperHind_, the forty-year-old design heavily upgraded and modernized by A.T.E Systems of South Africa to become a true 21st Century machine. The most obvious changes were the amour around the cockpit, flared out to accommodate new guidance systems, optics sensors, turrets and a fearsome steerable 30mm Cannon. The S_uperHind_ was still capable of troop transport, and with the ability to rope soldiers to the ground while providing heavy fire cover from the air; this was one very unique modern helicopter.

Where the Loyalists and Davidenko had acquired such machinery was not obvious, but the Task Force was glad to see it. As Toad looked around at the Russian soldiers milling about and readying the aircraft for take-off, he didn't seem to recognize a single Loyalist from the Georgia headquarters, with the exception of Kamarov. That changed when he looked over towards the fuselage of the _SuperHind_ and immediately recognized the female Loyalist that was inspecting the aircraft. The short black hair, endlessly long legs and a toned physique that would put most in the Special Forces to shame. Even though her back was turned, it had to be Natasha.

Toad decided to break away from the others, walking over to the hangar. It had been a while since the firefight at the Airbase, since Kosygin's interrogation, and since she had given him a helping hand after the Ultranationalist ambush, he was looking forward to meeting her again.

"Hey, Natasha!" Toad bellowed. "Is that you?"

The young Russian immediately stopped what she was doing and turned around to face the American, and sure enough he had guessed correctly, seeing the face he'd remembered that always looked so out of place on a battlefield.

"Well, well." Natasha said, her tone slightly playful. "If it isn't my favorite Marine. Had the Commander not told me you were here, this would be a nice surprise. "

"It's been a while, huh?"

"Yeah, good times." Monotova replied, laughing. "Not enough near-death experiences for my liking these days. I'm sure with you around that's going to change. How's your leg?"

Toad had completely forgotten the bullet that grazed his leg at the airbase. "Oh, that was nothing. Everyday stuff."

Toad observed the fatigues she was wearing. They were somewhat different to before, similar in that were black like the Loyalists, but in addition were piped with gold on the sleeves and epaulettes, and was emblazoned with gold embroidered patches of the twin headed Russian Eagle, as well as those that read "_Pоссия_" for Russia and "_ФСБ_" for the F.S.B.

"Sweet uniform, you really one of Davidenko's lot?" Toad queried. "You're a fed?"

She blinked at him, pausing for a moment before realizing what he meant. "Oh, yes, I am one of Davidenko's lot, one of good ones if you must. Lieutenant Natasha Monotova of the F.S.B, at your service."

"So, was being put in a Loyalist-sympathizing regiment your choice, or fate or something?"

Natasha smiled. "Well, five years ago, I was too young to choose a side in the first war. In my Russia, we didn't have the luxury of choice. It was Ultranationalist or nothing. I guess I was just lucky to be put with the Commander."

"You being related to a Loyalist nothing to do with it?" Toad asked.

"Kamarov? No, I never even knew about him until relatively recently. Any trace of his existence was completely hidden from me. Good thing, I probably wouldn't have been accepted otherwise."

Toad crossed his arms. "So, anyway, you know about Klossovsky?"

"Of course." Natasha said with disgust. "I know we don't have the full story, but somebody murdered my colleagues, and it was meant to be me. I was originally the one who was meant to be there. I'd say we can expect an Ultranationalist welcome party very soon. I wouldn't put it past him alerting his own enemies to our position."

"Kamarov wouldn't like hearing you say that." Toad said sarcastically.

"I know. You and I didn't spend our entire lives fighting for one man's cause. Kamarov did. It will take a lot to break down that man's wall of devotion to Klossovsky. But you know just what it's like to see your kinsmen murdered by one of their own countrymen, a man they trust."

Toad nodded grimly, before looking around at the multiple helicopters surrounding him, ready to change the subject. "So, L.T, are these beauties ready for take off yet?"

"Not quite, we are working on it. This whole thing has been dropped on us, you know. At least I won't have the burden of having to fly it, Davidenko has far better pilots than me."

"Well, you know that's bullshit" Toad joked. "I better leave you to it, Lieutenant."

"Alright, Toad. But if they beat us to it, we're ready for anything, and-"

"Toad!" Archer cut in with a shout from across the other side of the temporary airbase. "Get over here, we've got to-"

The SAS man was interrupted by a massive mortar blast that hit further down the valley, the flash illuminating the area and the resulting shockwave rattling the entire base. Everyone inside immediately jumped instinctively, readying their weapons in anticipation of the coming storm.

"Right, Toad!" Archer continued, his voice still as calm as it had been before. "It doesn't look like we're going to get out of here without a fight! I've got the Barrett, let's get up on that ridge behind this place and provide cover! Move!"

"Roger that!" Toad replied, before turning to Natasha, who was checking her AKS-74U carbine. "Best of luck, Lieutenant."

She didn't look back, but nodded in response. "God be with you, Toad."

* * *

Toad arrived first at the top of the ridge, just in time to view the spectacular display of muzzle flashes that were now erupting from the treeline, accompanied by the signature thunderous rattle of Kalashnikov rifles, fired by solders from both sides.

"They got here fast!" Archer announced upon his arrival, rushing into position and immediately setting about the set-up of his M82A1 .50 caliber sniper rifle, fitted with a AN/PVS-10 night vision scope, allowing for excellent visibility in the still gloomy conditions of this very early morning.

"All callsigns, this is Kirshov!" a quivering voice said on the comms, almost drowned out by the raging gunfire in the background. "They've breached our perimeter! It looks like the entire Ultranationalist army is showing up! Foot-mobiles, vehicles and judging by one massive thermal spike in the distance, they've got armor, over!"

"Solid copy, Kirshov." Commander Davidenko answered. "Fall back to my position and watch your sectors."

"Here they come." Toad said as he looked down his spotting scope at the advancing soldiers that were racing towards the base. Before he or Archer could get to work, they did something completely unexpected: they ceased fire, then turned around and darted back into the darkness of the woodland from whence they came, disappearing out of sight.

"What the bloody hell are these guys playing at?" Archer muttered. "Something just isn't right."

"Oorah." Toad concurred. "I don't like this."

The reason for the strange behavior of the Ultranationalist troops was soon obvious. With the scream of engines, four UAZ jeeps burst out of the forest, the gunners on the back of the vehicles opening fire at everything they could see with the rear mounted heavy machine guns.

"Team, be advised." Archer spoke into the comms. "You've got four technicals incoming at your twelve-"

Archer paused. There was what sounded at first like more jeeps approaching, but this engine was meatier, more heavy duty sounding this time. Two searchlights appeared first, penetrating through the darkness of the forest, followed by the astonishing sight of a charging six-wheeled behemoth. Somehow, the Ultranationalists had navigated a thirteen-ton BTR-80 Armored Personnel Carrier through the woodland.

"Holy shit." Toad breathed, thinking aloud. "How the fuck did they manage-"

"Doesn't matter." Archer interrupted sharply, before going back to his comms. "Team, be advised. You've got a BTR incoming, must be the armor Kirshov was talking about."

"Dealing with it." Corporal Steyn answered. "We've got anti-tank weapons. Just cover me as I send this big bastard to hell, alright?"

"Solid copy, Corporal."

The men on the ground had already dealt two of the UAZs with, but the other two had pulled alongside the BTR, heading right towards the hangar, the machine gunners wildly firing at any soldier that might pose a threat to the Personnel carrier and it's occupants. As soon as the Loyalist helicopters were in the range of the APC's huge mounted cannon, it opened fire, immediately ripping the first stationary Mi-8 to shreds, the fuel igniting into a massive, raging explosion.

"Goddamn, this has gotta be quick." Toad said, composing himself. "Right, first gunner, jeep at 950 yards. Closing real fast, at least 45 miles an hour. Got him?"

"Oh yeah." Archer replied, already starting to slow his breathing as he lined up the target.

"Fire."

The sound of a M82A1 being fired was like a thunderclap, resonating around the entire area. A few moments later it was confirmed that Archer's shot had been more or less perfect, hitting just below the gunner's neck and continuing onwards, taking most of the Ultranationalist's head with it on its journey with a cloud of pink. Archer seized the opportunity to switch his attention, this time at the driver of the same vehicle, who was distracted at the sight of his decapitated gunner.

"Good hit." Toad informed. "Got the driver?"

"I got him."

There was second thunderclap, followed by the short, whooshing screech of the bullet as it raced for it's target, passing just above the steering wheel of the Russian jeep and painting the windshield the crimson of the driver's blood. Archer wouldn't have to worry above the second UAZ, which didn't have enough time to brake for the immediately slowing vehicle it had been following. The following crash was nothing less than utter mayhem, the second Russian jeep continuing straight into the first with a groan of twisting metal and shattering glass. Then, the second jeep careened into the BTR it had been flanking, colliding with the first pair of wheels before behind dragged under the second set, tearing the smaller vehicle apart under the huge weight of the APC, but also jamming the rear wheels with its mangled wreckage. For a few seconds the back of the BTR was lifted into the air, giving a few precious moments where the machine was temporarily immobilized.

These were moments the team below didn't waste, as two anti-armor missiles streaked across from opposite ends of the base, smashing almost instantaneously with either side of the BTR, which promptly erupted into a colossal fireball.

"BTR neutralized." Said the voice of Steyn.

"Roger that." Price copied. "Good work team."

Toad took a moment to look away from his spotting scope, giving Archer a signature smile.

"Get some! You have got to say that was fucking awesome. Even I'm impressed."

Archer didn't look away from his scope, but he too smiled. "Wasn't bad, was it?"

Any thoughts of rest before the next Russian incursion were rudely interrupted by two rounds fired by Dragunov rifles, thudding into the ground in front of Archer and Toad and covering the two snipers in the resulting dirt cloud.

"Damn, looks like we've made ourselves known to them a little too well." Archer said, picking up his rifle. "Time to move, I'd say."

"Agreed."

If there was one thing the Task Force knew, it was that this was going to be one hell of a long morning.


	21. Puppets and Strings

Almost as suddenly as the onslaught that was the second Ultranationalist assault had begun, it was brought to an abrupt and unexpected end. Like a cheap firecracker, the relentless hail of machine gun and assault rifle fire slowly petered out into the singular dull thuds of distant chosen shots before finally there was nothing, and not a single muzzle flash appeared in the blackness as tense silence descended upon the valley.

Captain MacTavish cautiously rose from his cover, followed nervously by the men around him. He looked back from his position at Commander Davidenko, who was now staring in awe at the burning hulk that was once the BTR-80, the flickering inferno adding some much-needed light to the Russian's dull grey eyes.

"That was quite the fireworks display." The Commander said, smiling with relief.

"Roger that, Commander." MacTavish crossed his arms, his expression neutral. "Quite the crowd pleaser, and the men needed it. Hopefully it'll keep them motivated until the next attack. And trust me, Commander, it's coming. I don't know why they've stopped for now, but it'll make what just happened will look like a picnic. All we can do for now is get those choppers ready as soon as possible, and just keep everybody calm."

Davidenko nodded, before signaling to his engineers to recommence work on the remaining helicopters. He then turned his attention back to the ominous, unknown presence of what lay within the dark of the woodland. "Yes, I know that, Captain. So do all of-"

"Commander Davidenko!" interrupted the out-of-breath voice of Lieutenant Marki Kirshov, who had finally worked his way over to his commanding officer's position, his eyes wide, and his MP5 shaking in his hands. "Sir, when those explosions went up, me and my team got a good look at the enemy around us. Not only are we surrounded, sir, but there's hundreds of them, thousands maybe."

"Yeah, I saw it too." The Canadian accent of Ozone copied over the radio.

Davidenko and MacTavish said nothing. They turned to face each other, looking concerned, and doing their best job not to look frightened at the news. Both knew they couldn't stay here forever and fighting an entire battle would account to nothing less than suicide. What was needed, however, was the time to be bought in order to get the helicopters in the air. If it meant fighting off everything Ivanov could throw at them until escape was possible, that would have to be the plan.

Davidenko immediately set about scanning the wilderness with a pair of cutting-edge Russian thermal binoculars. "Well, there might be thousands of them out there." he said with a hint of trepidation, "But I can't see a single person out there."

"That is impossible!" Kirshov insisted, immediately grabbing at the binoculars Davidenko offered him, glancing wildly around at his surrounding before finally freezing, utterly dumbfounded by the situation. "I…I don't understand? What is happening? What the fucking is going on?"

MacTavish grunted. "The sooner we find out, Lieutenant, the better."

"Kamarov, do you or your men see anything." Davidenko asked over the comms.

"This is Kamarov." The Loyalist answered. "Negative. I am with Price and Mercer. There's nothing, not a soul as far as any of our optics can see, and these SAS boys have some real advanced shit. I've never encountered anything quite like this, sir."

"Neither have I, comrade. Just keep a watchful eye on everything."

"Solid copy, Commander."

"Maybe the Ultranationalists figured out it was us and decided it would be a better idea to just fuck off." The gravely voice of Captain Price joked.

"In a perfect world, old man." MacTavish replied wearily. "In a perfect world."

"Well, you think they would have got the hint by now." Price said. "I mean, even Shadow Company gave topping us a go, and look who it is who's still standing."

MacTavish laughed. "I don't remember you being quite that confident when you were giving me the old 'last day on earth' speech. You nearly drove a grown man to tears!"

"Funnily enough, Soap, I don't remember you being too confident either. In fact I don't think you even spoke for days. You were-"

"Now, now ladies." The unmistakably American voice of Toad cut in. "With all due respect, is this really the time or the place to act like an old married couple? Loyalists, what's the status on those helicopters? Me and Arch weren't born to die on no fucking mountain!"

"The Ka-52 and the Havoc are pretty much ready" One of the Russians, either a pilot or an engineer, informed. "The rest will need a few minutes. Maybe we'll get out of here after all, just may-"

The Russian was proven wrong almost immediately by a voice. A shrill, deafening voice. It came from a loudspeaker, located far away on the other side of the forest, but the sheer volume and pitch made the entire Task Force flinch as if the speaker was screaming directly into all of their ears instantaneously.

"Attention enemy combatants! Attention enemy combatants!" The voice, a Russian female, middle-aged and authoritarian, ordered. "This is Commander Redinova of the Federal Security Service! We have you surrounded! I order you now, surrender at once, or we shall be forced to use lethal force!"

"So what, a BMP attack isn't what your colleagues consider lethal force?" MacTavish mockingly suggested to Davidenko, but when he looked back to see the Commander's reaction he saw a different man, pale and uneasy. Whoever Commander Redinova was, she had managed to put the fear of god into the usually ice-cold Russian.

."They…they found out everything they wanted with that one attack." Davidenko stuttered. "The reason the grunts pulled out? They're about to be replaced with the very best Ivanov can throw at us."

"No replies?" Redinova continued. "Very well. Commander Davidenko, we know you are there. We are fully aware of your mutiny towards the F.S.B and that you are harboring hostile infiltrators. We fully understand the motives for your actions, but you must surrender now, and avoid any further addition to the pointless waste of life that has blackened our organization for these past few bloody days. I'm giving you thirty seconds."

"You hearing this, Captain?" Davidenko asked.

"Yeah." MacTavish replied. "Jeez, she can really talk for Russia can't she?"

Much to the Captain's expectations, Davidenko didn't appreciate his brand of humor, the only reply being a quick hand gesture to cease talking. Instead, the Commander reached for his radio, changing to the secure channel reserved for the F.S.B, hoping to contact Redinova directly in an attempt to buy some more time.

"Commander Redinova" he said. "This is a nice surprise."

"Ah, it really is Commander Gav Davidenko." Redinova sighed audibly over the radio. "You wish to talk?"

"Indeed." Davidenko answered quickly, aware that all eyes in the area were now on him.

"All right." Redinova accepted, "As long as it about the terms of your surrender, speak away."

"If we surrender, do you think this will stop the bloodshed?"

"I'm not that stupid." The Ultranationalist dismissed. "But it's a start. Anyway, you don't want the men following you dying pointlessly, do you?"

"Of course not." Davidenko went on. "But I'm going to have to decline that lovely offer of yours, darling."

"Your choice." Redinova growled. "But the officers under your command do not have to share the same fate, and I know very well they are listening in on our conversation. I ask you all now to make the right decision and apprehend Commander Davidenko. You may have helped carry out his wishes, but you have only been acting under the orders of a rogue. I know it isn't easy, but Russia is under attack and your commanding officer only wishes to feed the Western plague that could destroy our nation. Do your duty."

"Very impressive." Kirshov replied, with more than a hint of bilious sarcasm. "I'm very moved, really I am. You must have practiced that little speech for hours."

"Of course." Redinova said. "Why am I not surprised that Lieutenant Marki Kirshov would mindlessly follow his leader all the way to his grave. I guess without Davidenko's ass to kiss, you would be quite the lost soul. As for you, Lieutenant Monotova…"

Natasha immediately turned from her position to see Davidenko and Kirshov urging her to speak to Redinova. She bit her tongue, the thought of talking to the very person who was on the verge of ordering her execution making her skin crawl. But doing so may give the aircrew the valuable time needed to at least save some of her comrades.

"Commander." If Natasha sounded terrified, she felt far worse. "All I have to say-"

"Now Kirshov's betrayal I foresaw eons ago." Redinova interrupted. "But you really do disappoint me Lieutenant. I guess the tainted Loyalist blood that courses through your veins has corrupted you beyond measure, and beyond any hope of redemption."

Natasha could almost taste the bitterness of Redinova's words. "So you know."

"Oh dear." The Ultranationalist Commander scoffed. "If you truly believe we never knew about Kamarov, you are far more ignorant than I thought. Let me ask, do you see it as poetic, fighting and dying alongside him? You didn't even know of his existence when you swore to defend Ultranationalist Russia. I bet you still don't even know his real name."

Natasha couldn't help but smile. "You've got me there, Commander, I don't"

"And yet, you still wish to die for him? You know the man he follows is a relic, a disillusioned psychopath who despises even the blind followers who devote their life to his maniacal cause?"

"I'm not loyal to him, I am loyal to Russia." Natasha said with defiance. "And the way I see it, President Ivanov is the greater threat to this great country."

"I'm sorry." Redinova was caught by surprise and laughed, as if Natasha had merely been jesting. "_President _Ivanov? I do like the man, but I wouldn't go giving him such an accolade just yet. Oh, wait a minute. You must still think Vorshevsky was assassinated, and your precious little Directive Collateral was a _Loyalist_ exercise. I thought you would have figured it out by now. This just gets better and better!"

"She's bluffing." Davidenko immediately cut in. He might have been the one saying the words, but he sounded totally unsure of their truthfulness.

"Bluffing or not, I'm staying here." Natasha sighed. She had to keep belief in her Commanding Officer. It was all she had left. "Loyalty is a cruel mistress, Davidenko. I just hope that in the long run, what we all did was worth it."

Her green eyes narrowed as she focused her attention back to the radio. "I'm tired of talking to you, Redinova." She snapped. "Maybe I've made the wrong decisions. But at least I'm not an Ultranationalist."

"Have it your way then, Lieutenant." Redinova replied, her attention and patience obviously coming to its end. "Much as I wish I could sit here all day and convince you otherwise, I'm not going to deny you and your Commander your last little moment of glory. Goodbye."

Natasha spent the next few moments blankly looking at the radio, unable to do anything but think. So, Directive Collateral had been a Ultranationalist idea all along, a trap used by Vorshevsky to ensnare the traitorous agents, the Loyalist rebels and the most wanted operatives of Task Force 141, all in one fell, brilliant swoop. It was a work of genius on a terrifying scale but where did Klossovsky and Makarov fit in? Why would Redinova even bother to give the game away? The countless thoughts and questions made her think only one thing. She had to survive all this, if only to find out what the hell was really going on.

"Well, Commander." She said. "I guess this, well, uh-"

"I'm sorry Lieutenant." Davidenko interrupted. "All of you, I'm sorry for dragging you into this trap. Captain Price, there could still be time for you and your men to slip through their net, if I-"

"Forget it, mate." Captain Price cut in, his tone the usual, effortless calm. "You know that isn't possible, but this isn't over yet. We're dug in, with plenty of equipment and ammunition. Just remain calm, and lead by example."

* * *

Atop the ridge, all Archer and Toad could do was sit, listen, and prepare.

Toad looked over at Archer, afraid down to the bone but doing well not to look it. "I guess this is it then, huh?"

Archer had handed Toad the Barrett M82A1, and was now preparing for himself a second sniper rifle, an Accuracy International AS50 .50 BMG. Fitted with a thermal optic scope, the futuristic, British-built AS50 was also capable of firing explosive or incendiary rounds with exceptional accuracy. If there was ever a time where the absolute overkill this rifle brought to the table was going to be necessary, this was it.

"The rules are about to go out the window." Archer announced. "Well, there's always at least something resembling a rule, and today it's anything we see moving in that treeline, we shoot. No questions asked."

The Marine shrugged. "I can live with that. I'm ready for 'em."

"Well, ain't that good to know." Archer smiled darkly behind his sights. "Cause I know I'm not."

Through the thermal scope, the black expanse of endless forest slowly began to change form, first slowly turning a mild grey before finally morphing into a monstrous, pulsating, living white mass. It was a truly surreal sight, almost as if the entire forest had come to life, and was marching its way down the hill towards them. But in reality the white mass was made up of hundreds of individual people. And these weren't just any ordinary people; this was an army of elite Spetsnaz troopers. And they were coming right for them.

Archer felt a single drop of sweat run down the length of his forehead as he reached for the trigger. _Here we go_.


	22. Iron Smell of Blood

The simultaneous explosion of thousands of rounds of gunfire sounded like Armageddon raining down from on high.

It was impossible to even guess just how many Spetsnaz Commandos there were currently unleashing an endless, thunderous hail of bullets, but this was of no thought to Captain Price and his men. The rising mechanical whine of the turboprop engines of two of the helicopters could now be faintly heard despite the attack, as the rotors on the MI-8 and Mi-28 slowly but surely started to rotate. The sight made for a glimmer of hope, no matter how faint. It also gave the men an objective, and that was to keep those helos in one piece at all costs. If this objective could be achieved, maybe, just maybe, they would stand half a chance of getting out of this godforsaken place alive.

"Davidenko!" Price yelled at the top of his voice. "Commander, get your men to hit 'em with whatever Fifty Cals you've got! Right now!"

"Roger that." Davidenko answered, his voice barely audible over the dominating volume of the approaching fire. "All Units, do it! Light them up!"

The F.S.B and Loyalists had put up various entrenched machine gun positions in case of ambush, as well as the various heavy weapons fitted to the helicopters, armored cars and Fast Attack Vehicles. As one, each of these guns unleashed hell on the approaching Spetsnaz, who had obviously been expecting something of the sort and fell back momentarily into the dark. Those commandos that had advanced too far to retreat immediately leaped for cover in one spectacular, synchronized dive. For a few important moments, the Ultranationalists were suppressed.

"Alright!" Captain Price said. "This is it! If you've got grenade launchers, use them!"

What followed the Captain's orders was a barrage of high explosive rounds fired from American-made M203 grenade launchers fitted to M4 and C8 style carbines, in addition to the Israeli-made TAR-21 that had found favor with some of the F.S.B officers. As well as these were the more modern EGLM systems made for the Belgian-made FN SCAR and F2000, along with the GP-30 attached to the Russian Kalashnikovs and Nikonov AN-94 Akabans.

The 40mm rounds sailed in one simultaneously soaring arch through the air, eventually impacting in the rough area the first Ultranationalist group was using for cover. It my have been hard to see in the gloom, but it was still clear that some of these rounds had detonated in the right place, as in the resulting illumination of the explosions some of the men could be seen helplessly flailing through the air, some without all their limbs still attached.

"Good, that was on target!" MacTavish informed. "Keep hitting them!"

Before MacTavish had even finished speaking, the Ultranationalists had acted with lightning speed to respond to the counterattack. For each of their men down, another six had rushed to his position and were now busy laying down heavy fire on the Loyalist base. At this rate, they would force their way inside far sooner than anticipated.

* * *

Ozone had regrouped with Mercer's SAS team, and was now making his way up the left flank while the Russian Loyalists took the right. As the Canadian looked ahead, he could see one of the Loyalist machine gun posts, the two-man team firing the Polish-built WKM-B wildly at the cover positions ahead, seemingly oblivious to the enemy commando teams currently outflanking them as they charged in from both sides.

"Oh God." Mercer said as he stopped, seeing the same sight. "What the hell are they doing?"

"Whatever it is, it's going to get them killed." Ozone replied, before turning back to the MG gunners. "You guys on the far fifty cal wanna die? Fall back, right now!"

Not surprisingly, the gunners hadn't heard a word he a said, either through radio transmission problems or just pure adrenaline blocking out any outside distractions. Ozone sighed, readying his FN SCAR rifle. He was going to have to do this the hard way and make his way over there himself and forcibly remove them before it was too late.

Seeing Ozone ready himself, Mercer took a step back, his eyes widening in shock at the thought of what the JTF2 soldier was about to do.

"Are you insane?" The SAS man yelped. "It's too late, all you'll achieve by going over there is help rack up the body count!"

Ozone snapped around, giving the Brit one very disapproving glare. "Nobody's fuckin' ordering you to come with me buddy, if I have to go alone-"

"Oh hell no you won't." Mercer insisted, slamming a new clip into his C8 Carbine. "Anyway, Arch would kill me if you die doing something that stupid and suicidal on my watch, so I'm coming with you."

"Yeah, and that means I am too." Corporal Steyn added. "I was getting bored standing around anyway."

"Very well" Ozone smiled uneasily. "Let's not waste anymore time, throw smoke to cover the advance on my go."

"3."

"2."

"1."

"Go, go go!"

As the men stormed their way towards the MG position, the impending fate of the gunners without any outside intervention was more than obvious, as scores of Spetsnaz emerged into view to both the left and right, stalking ever closer, already staring down the barrels of their sleek black Akaban rifles, preparing to open fire.

Ozone was the first to catch them off guard, dropping the first two on the right with well-aimed bursts from the SCAR. Mercer and Steyn swung left, mirroring Ozone's actions with deadly accuracy as one by one the caught-by-surprise Ultranationalists were nailed, falling to the ground as bullets thumped into their bodies. Finally, Ozone leaped into the entrenched position, earning shocked looks from the two gunners as he grabbed them both by the straps of their webbing vests, pulling them to their feet.

"This position was overrun three minutes ago!" Ozone growled. "Like it or not, you are falling back!"

The wide-eyed Russian just gave bemused nods as their responses. As they made their way back towards the base, more and more enemy Commandos started to flood their way out of the trees, as if they had smelt the blood of the ones who strayed too far from safety and were now restlessly chasing after the scent with an insatiable thirst.

Mercer was still giving cover as he crouched by the emplacement, completely exposed to enemy fire and forced to spend the next few moments just hoping an enemy sniper wouldn't catch his silhouette. Steyn was positioned at the opposite side, scanning the area and by the worried expression he carried, thinking exactly the same thoughts. Mercer couldn't waste his time on thoughts, however, as it only took a few seconds for him to catch a glimpse of one of the approaching Ultranationalists faces in the sights of his carbine. He fired once.

A quick glace up from the scope revealed he'd only delayed the inevitable as four more Commandos bared down on him, and fast. He and Steyn picked off two, but faster than they could pull the trigger the remaining men got closer. Suddenly, as One Spetsnaz man raised his Akaban, a piercing gunshot echoed through the valley. This one wasn't fired by the AN-94; it was from a round that hit the commando like a lightning bolt out of the blue, and so powerful it tore the unfortunate man's body apart; but even there the bullet wasn't quite finished yet, as it continued on its course straight through of the torso of the man behind him.

"Jesus Christ!" Mercer gasped at the sight, as the two men fell where they stood and slumped to the ground.

"Good shooting, I count two tangos down." The voice of Archer spoke in his headset. "Nice one, Toad. Mercer, you can thank us later."

"Yeah, sure mate!" Mercer replied, exasperated. "It's appreciated. You and Toad just keep doing…keep doing that."

"C'mon Mercer!" Ozone had left the Machine gun position with Steyn and the Russians and was now waving him over. "We can't get stuck here. Wait! Look-"

What had caught the attention of Ozone's eye was yet another Ultranationalist, emerging phantom-like from the covering haziness of the leftover nearby smoke grenades. Seeing that he was carrying a fearsome RPG-18 _Mukha_ anti-tank launcher, everyone was twice as fast to swivel to fire on him, but the quick smirk on the Russian's face said it all. His finger had made it to the trigger before anyone, beating even the sniper team to the punch.

There was no place to move, no time to escape. The resulting explosion ripped through the gun emplacement with ease, sending Mercer, Steyn and Ozone helplessly spiraling through the air in a cloud of debris, dirt and sandbags.

Ozone crashed into the ground, landing so hard his legs twisted around to the point where he very nearly kicked himself in the teeth. Every single part of his body seared with pain as if somebody had taken a sledgehammer to it, but as the bullets started to scream overhead, Ozone knew he was a sitting duck. He scrambled to his feet, relieved at the fact that even though he was hurt, at least everything was still attached, and he was still alive and breathing.

As he struggled to move himself to cover, a voice exploded in his ears.

"Ozone! Run!" The voice belonged to that of Captain Price, and the most shocking thing about it was for once he actually sounded hurried and tense. "They'll be all over you any second. You've got the snipers and us covering you; get to our position at 11 o'clock! Move it!

Ozone had no time to think, he just did as he was instructed and ran. With bullets starting to burn their way past him, some passing less than inches from his body, the intense pain of his injuries seemed to completely pass out of him as the pure adrenaline kicked in. As he finally reached the entrance to the base he saw the two searchlights of the Loyalist Fast Attack Vehicle moving at speed towards him and moments later, Captain Price beckoning him over from the driver's seat, with MacTavish covering him with the fifty cal from the gunner's seat. With his last ounce of energy, Ozone climbed into the buggy's passenger seat, and almost instantaneously the pain returned to him in one huge wave.

"God damn it!" He groaned. "This is pissing me off. How many times am I going to get my ass kicked?"

"Well, at least you're in one piece, mate." Price said. "You were one of the lucky ones."

At the sound of the Captain's words, Ozone's face dropped. In all the time he had spent focused on his own self-preservation, he hadn't contemplated the fate of the comrades who had been standing right by his side prior to the explosion.

"Oh god." he breathed, his face turning pale. "Are they-"

"Calm it." Price cut in. "The Russians got them out of there. Mercer's hit. Steyn is worse. But both of them are alive."

"Fuck!" Ozone spat, his face in his hands. "If it wasn't for those two idiotic gunners, they'd-"

"Not now." The Captain interrupted again. "The men under the command of Kamarov and Davidenko are giving it their all to make sure we get out of here alive. We've had two hurt, but when I left to get you the Loyalists had lost twelve already, so-"

"Price!" MacTavish yelled. "I think he gets the picture, but in case you hadn't already noticed, half the Russian Army is advancing towards us! Would you please get us the hell out of here!"

"Gladly." Price sighed, shifting the gearbox of the buggy into reverse with a hefty mechanical clunk.

Price put the pedal to the floor, and the FAV's highly tuned Volkswagen engine growled as the rear wheels spun hard, kicking up a huge cloud of dirt and dust as they struggled for purchase on the loose ground. As it was beginning to build up speed, Price yanked the steering wheel, using his free hand to put the gearbox into neutral while his feet jabbed the brakes, swinging the nimble vehicle through 180 degrees in one smooth motion and putting it into gear just before the move was completed. Ozone and Soap immediately ducked down as the bullets started to ricochet off the light amour provided by the rear metal plating, but the rapid acceleration the FAV was built for soon proved its worth, getting back to the Loyalist stronghold in only a matter of seconds. As the buggy screeched to a halt, MacTavish took a moment to lean forward, grabbing Ozone by the shoulder to gain his attention.

"Wanna feel a bit better, mate?" He said, his voice surprisingly optimistic. "Just look up!"

Ozone glanced skyward, and sure enough his eyes were greeted with the sight of two Loyalist helicopters that had finally made it into the air. One of these was one the two remaining Mi-8 transports, and the second was the Mi-28 _Havoc _gunship, which covered the more vulnerable aircraft's retreat with it's vast and heavy array of weaponry, including a chin-mounted 30mm cannon and various missiles and rockets fitted to the side-mounted pylons, which it unleashed at the approaching ground forces, temporarily causing them to scatter

"This is Eagle 2-1" The Mi-8 pilot announced over the radio. "Those of you who are not already on board a helicopter, now would be a good time to get to one. We can't wait around forever. 2-1 out."

"You heard him." Price said. "Unless you want to be left behind, I think it would be a good idea to do what he says."

* * *

Inside the main safehouse, Lieutenant Marki Kirshov crouched by the man he had just killed. The F.S.B Lieutenant moved the deceased's arm across his bloodstained chest to get a better view of his shoulder insignia, and observed a sewn on patch, in the shape of a shield, blue and gold, and displayed an ornate gold-handled dagger behind a prominent, bold and proud red letter A. There was no doubt about it, this man was Spetsnaz Alpha Group, and that meant he was attached to the Special Operations Command Unit of the F.S.B. To Kirshov, this meant that only few moments ago, this man was his ally and his colleague. Now, under the orders of Redinova, he had been just another one of the hundreds of men tasked with eliminating the threat of those who were a danger to Russia.

Had Kirshov been a member of Task Force 141 or the Loyalists, the man from Alpha group would just be another target to bring down before he brought you down, but to Kirshov, he wasn't. Turning your sights on somebody who previously a colleague, a friendly and a comrade in arms is much more difficult, and pulling the trigger is something far, far beyond that entirely. The Commando might have taken his orders from the Ultranationalist F.S.B, but until recently so had Marki. He had shared the same headquarters as this man, carried out the same missions, followed the same orders and sworn to defend the same country. It was because of this that when the Commando burst into the room of the base that Kirshov had been defending, the Lieutenant had hesitated to open fire.

It was this hesitation that allowed the highly trained Ultranationalist to pull the trigger first, and took every second the F.S.B man gave him to use his astonishing speed and accuracy to drop two of Kirshov's team, who had paused much like their commanding officer had at the sight of the similarly-dressed Commando, before the Lieutenant finally found it within himself to return the favor. Now he was hyperventilating, shocked at his failure and allowing his two men to die, but knowing deep down that he had to compose himself and fast if he didn't want to join them.

Feeling a presence behind him, Kirshov turned, gripping his MP5 tighter than ever before and with his finger firmly on the trigger. As a shadow started to creep towards the doorway, this time he would not hesitate. He waited, time slowing as he stared unblinking down the Heckler & Koch's Aimpoint sight, watching for the precious moment where the target would appear in the doorway and he could take the shot.

But whoever it was, they had been expecting him as much as he had been expecting them, and all Kirshov saw was a ghostly figure diving into the room like a dart before disappearing into the darkness of the corner. Instinctively, Kirshov pulled the trigger, keeping it down and spraying automatic rounds across the room in the general direction of the Tango's destination. The only sounds that followed were the trademark thumping roar of the MP5 were the sub-machine gun's rounds ripping harmlessly into the wall, and Kirshov immediately knew he had missed his target, lost the initiative, and now had to reload and quickly. He started to sweat in the knowledge that the enemy now had a chance to get a bead on him.

As he reached for a new magazine in the pouch of his assault vest however, he was interrupted by the static crackle of his radio.

"Kirshov!" Yelled the urgent voice of Commander Davidenko. "Check your fire! Check your fire!"

"Shit." Kirshov breathed. "Did I hit anybody?"

"Not quite." A voice in the corner said, and Kirshov immediately felt a lump in his throat. In a matter of seconds, he had gone from allowing his own men to die to almost shooting dead Sgt. Kamarov. The only way things could possibly get worse was if he eventually ended up dead.

"Sergeant, my apologies!" Kirshov gasped. "I…I'm-"

"Not a problem, Lieutenant." Kamarov replied, standing up and taking a deep breath, brushing the dust and plaster from the wall off of his jacket. "These things happen. Sounded like you were in some serious trouble over here so I came to assist. I tried to inform you, but my comms must have gone down. Sorry I spooked you."

Kamarov took a moment to observe the carnage that had taken place. Various shell casings lay all over the place, every wall covered in a smattering of bullet holes and splattered in a crimson pasting of blood. Three men lay dead on the floor, two of which were F.S.B officers, both slumped next to each other carrying the same expression that consisted of a measure of surprised and confused, and both having received a bullet each to the forehead. The third man was crumpled up by the far wall, and his face still looked confident and defiant despite it being more than evident that almost an entire magazine had been emptied into his now-lifeless body.

"Wow." Kamarov shook his head, struggling to muster up any better words. "What a-"

"A mess, I know." Kirshov interrupted. "I well and truly fucked up here. These men are dead because of me. All three of them. When you came storming in like that, I nearly chalked up a fourth. You forget me and go back to the helicopters, all I'm gonna do is-"

"Get your friends killed?" Kamarov finished Kirshov's sentence, much as the Lieutenant had done the same for him. "Gimme a break. Talking isn't going to do a damn thing out here, so get yourself unfucked ASAP and follow me; there are still plenty of people alive out there who desperately need your help. You, Marki, are an excellent soldier. I know that."

Kirshov snorted weakly. "Sure. Compared to Alpha Group, I'm just a glorified beat cop with some fancy equipment, I'm sure I'll-"

"You'll do just fine. One of the transports is already away, so why don't you just shut the fuck up and let that machine-gun in your hands do the talking from now on. Let's go."


	23. Barrage

_"This is Eagle 2-1. Those of you who are not already on board a helicopter, now would be a good time to get to one. We can't wait around forever. 2-1 out."_

Atop the ridge, Toad and Archer watched on as the fight reached the airfield, and showed no signs of anything less than maximum ferocity. The allied soldiers were digging in deep, standing their ground to keep the incoming enemy from getting near and attacking the aircraft, which even with cover from the Havoc that hovered above, looked like an ever more impossible task as the flood of Ultranationalist reinforcements was still nothing less than constant and unrelenting.

"I guess that's our cue." Toad observed, sounding more than a little uneasy. "We better not get left behind."

"I agree with that, mate." Archer glanced across from the AS50. "I think we might be missing out on the frivolities up here."

"Not quite that, but should lady luck be on the side of our friends, do you really think they are going to sit around and wait for us two when they are aboard a packed chopper?"

"Much as I would like to think that they would." Archer mused. "I doubt it somehow. I know I-"

Archer flinched as he was cut off yet again by another Dragunov round blasting harmlessly into the soft earth, but only inches from his position. Knowing the Russians had picked up on his position once again, the British sniper responded by immediately snapping back to his thermal scope, swinging to the direction of the shot and almost immediately finding the source, a faint white figure of the opposing marksman and his spotter, stationary in the forest.

"You see them, Toad?" Archer asked, finger on the trigger and ready to open fire.

"Yeah." Toad conformed. "Easy. I got the one on the left."

"As per the usual."

Both high-powered fifty calibre rifles roared as they fired, like one huge cannon. Archer and Toad then waited for the white-hot shower of blood that would confirm the kill, and sure enough, a few moments later the man on the right was hit just below the neck and dropped to the ground. What Archer hadn't been expecting was the man next to him, who stayed unmoving in position. One more very slow seeming second past, and Archer's mouth started to go dry. He now knew that Toad hadn't hit his target.

"Oh my god!" Toad gasped. "I missed him. I…I gotta reload, shit!"

"I'll get him." Archer said, his tone cool and calm as ever. "Just calm it, mate."

Toad's blood rushed as he turned away from the Barrett, his hands scrambling around and desperately searching the pockets of his vest for the correct magazine for the M82A1. Eventually finding it, he moved back towards his rifle, ready to fit the new clip in. It was at that precise moment the night vision scope fitted to his weapon was hit by a round and exploded right in his face; a thousand shards of twisted metal and shattered glass shooting out in all directions, catching the sniper who winced as he twisted backwards in pain.

"Toad!" Archer yelled in shock. "Are you alright?"

At first Toad didn't respond, he just lay face down in the dirt clutching both hands together and groaned with agony.

"Toad!"

"Jesus Christ!" Toad finally managed. "Ah, I don't think it's that bad, Just my hands. I think I got some in the neck too. Can you see?"

Archer looked over, setting about inspecting the Marine's injuries. Even though his neck might have been bleeding quite badly at the moment, Toad had still been one extremely lucky man. A piece of metal or glass had obviously shot diagonally across the length of his neck, somehow only causing a nasty but superficial cut right across the middle. Had it gone any deeper, his war would have been over right there and then. But it was Toad's hands that had brought the brunt, as he had been just about quick enough to cover his face in time. His nomex Blackhawk Hellstorm gloves had been torn to pieces, his hands underneath a dripping, bloody mess of gashes.

"You're bleeding all over the place, but you'll be okay." Archer attempted to reassure his friend as he rose to his feet. "We've still got to go."

"Are you demented?" Toad gasped. "Get back down, he's-"

"He's dead. He got a lucky shot off before I got a chance to finish him. These Spetsnaz have been practicing, I'd struggle with an SVD at that range."

Toad's eyes widened at Archer's lighthearted behavior. "Stop laughing about it, I'm bleeding half to death here, and you're acting like a fucking psychopath."

"Sorry, mate." Archer still laughed it off, grabbing Toad by his assault vest and helping his friend to his feet. "How callous of me. Now come on, you're not dying, and I'm going to get you out of here."

"I don't need any help, really." Toad said, doing his best at dealing with the pain as he picked up his M4A1 assault rifle. "My legs are just fine, and as it just so happens that my trigger finger is still in one piece, I'd say I'm pretty much good to go right now."

"Really? You sure?"

Toad shrugged his shoulders. "What else am I meant to do, stroll back with my hands in my pockets? Wait up here for these few cuts to heal?"

"I guess not."

* * *

"Hold your fire!" Commander Davidenko ordered his team, eyeing the silhouetted figures of Kamarov and Kirshov as they emerged from the hellish unknown that was the blackness of the wilderness behind the safehouse, running for their very lives. "Friendlies coming in at our twelve."

"We've got two more incoming from the hills to our right, Sir!" A young Loyalist soldier squatted by the cover of a nearby wall shouted to him. "Can you see em? It might be the friendly sniper team, but I've heard nothing."

"Copy that, Private, I'll take a look." Davidenko replied, clambering to the top of the wall and watching on with interest as two men raced down the ridge towards him. At this distance, and in this light, it was still not obvious who they were even through his optics. "Archer, Toad. What's your status, over?"

"We're falling back." The exasperated voice of Archer answered. "Oscar Mike to the safehouse, over"

"Alright Archer, I see you. You and Toad keep hidden as much as you can, we'll cover you."

"Solid Copy, Commander."

Before Davidenko could stop to think about how to give a wide range of covering fire to both groups of men, another voice exploded into his headset. This time, it was the voice of Captain Price.

"Davidenko! You still there?" He shouted. "We've got Ozone, have left our vehicle and we're heading for the airfield, but we're taking heavy fire from multiple directions, over."

"I can't catch a break here." Davidenko muttered to himself. "I hear you, Price. Where are you right now exactly?"

"To the east of the main safehouse." Price replied, struggling to find his words while running as fast as he could. "Where…where are you?"

"We are just ahead of your position, Price. Don't stop, keep running and you should see Kirshov and Kamarov any second, so watch what you're shooting at."

"Understood." Price grumbled. "And yeah, we will, if we even make it that far."

As Kirshov and Kamarov got ever closer, Ozone, Price and MacTavish finally appeared in the smoky haze, racing towards the loyalist lines with all the speed their tired and injured legs still had left in reserve, and then some. Suddenly, everybody paused in awe as one huge, blinding white flash filled the sky, accompanied by the deafening roar of detonation. Davidenko immediately knew exactly what this was, but a quick glance upwards confirmed where the blast had come from. The Mi-28 that only seconds earlier had been hovering right above his position, trying to keep the encroaching forces at bay, had been hit by at least two surface-to-air missiles at once, completely severing the tail from the rest of the fuselage and sending the aircraft into a uncontrollable flaming spiral towards earth, and at an alarming rate. Worse still, it appeared that the very area where the stricken helicopter was going to crash was right on top of the safehouse, and although there was nobody inside the building, with the ordinance the helicopter still carried the resulting explosion and shockwave would kill anyone around it.

* * *

The sight of moored fishing boats, peacefully and hypnotically rocking backwards and forwards in the bay of the Golden Horn were more than a world away from the hellish scenes back at Roman Klossovsky's old safehouse compound. There was not a single moment he did not think of his homeland, the country he loved, the country he once ruled and the country he had left behind.

The former Russian President was now in a cheap and musky no-questions-asked rented apartment on the waterfront of Istanbul, Turkey, the world's fifth largest city and the place one goes to truly see the border of where east meets west, and Europe meets Asia. The idea of bridging this cultural and geographical gap had been a dream of men for many thousands of years, dating back to the days of Xerxes, where the motivation had been the building of a vast empire, warfare and the conquering of nations. Today however, the mighty Bospherous Bridge spanned the strait after which it was named, as well as the newer Fatih Sultan Mehmet toll bridge further down the city, all in the name of uniting a nation, as well as the usual tourism, trade, travel and commerce.

Dank and unpleasant as his temporary abode may be, Klossovsky liked this city. That and he was just pleased to be anywhere but Morocco, thankful to leave and get away from the prying eyes of the local and foreign authorities. The car bombing had been a proverbial kick to the hornet's nest, and now the wrong people were slowly but surely catching on to the seriously suspicious behavior that had been going on in Marrakesh.

As he leant on the windowsill, Klossovsky's hope of further musings were rudely cut off by a key loudly slotting into the door behind him, and after it opened, into the room walked Vladimir Makarov, Viktor and Anatoly, each carrying a duffel bag full of equipment and weapons. All three men looked extremely uncomfortable to the point where they were fatigued enough to collapse right there on the spot.

"You made it." Klossovsky said without a hint of emotion. "How was the boat trip?"

"Very funny." Makarov was already irritated, and tried not to lose his temper as he wiped the sweat off of his brow with his sleeve. "Just because you get to go on an airliner like any other reasonably free man doesn't mean you should boast about it. This damn boat was maximum capacity of twenty, and we must have been on board with fifty. So, before we start, I need a fucking drink to forget it ever happened."

"You look like you need a shower first. You certainly smell like it."

"Fuck you, Roman." Makarov spat weakly, throwing his duffel bag to the floor in annoyance. "Next time, I'll just inform Flugruger you're with us, then we'll see if you'll still be living the jet-set lifestyle. I don't even know why I still agreed to this in the first place, you should be goddamn thankful I'm still on board after that bomb stunt you pulled in Africa, you moron."

"You're still on board because I have what you don't." Returned Klossovsky. "And vice versa. Everything has to go ahead as we planned and you know it. Now sit down, for god's sake, before you die of exhaustion. What are you drinking?"

"What is there?"

"There's beer."

"No, no, I need something stronger." Makarov said, disgruntled. "What else is there?"

"Some shitty whiskey the previous tenants left here." Klossovsky shrugged. "That's about it."

"Fine, that'll have to do."

Klossovsky looked over at Makarov's accomplices. "And what about you two fine gentlemen?"

"The same." Viktor and Anatoly answered monotonously as one.

"Very well." Klossovsky poured into three dirty glasses, setting them onto the table as the three Russians wearily took a seat at the small wooden table. Before Makarov could even start to drink, the former president heading for the door distracted him.

"Not joining us, Roman?" he asked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

"I've got to make a call, outside." Klossovsky answered sternly. "I'm allowed to talk to my people, just like you're allowed to talk to yours. That was-"

"The deal, I know" Makarov finished, waving Klossovsky out of the door. "Go on, get out."

Klossovsky calmly headed for the street, looking around to make sure he was alone. Out of his pocket he pulled out a satellite phone, and dialed a number he already had in his phonebook. All he had to do now was pray that he would get an answer.


	24. Evac

It was a blinding flash of white lightning that took Captain Price into unconsciousness, and it took a second one to bring him crashing right back in the world of the living. He hadn't heard or seen the explosion, just watched on helplessly as the Havoc helicopter screamed uncontrollably only inches overhead before crashing directly into the safehouse in an ear-shattering starburst of an explosion. Both aircraft and building had been completely destroyed in the blast, and Price, the one who was closest, had been engulfed in the force of the resulting shockwave. Coming around far from where he had been thrown, he was heavily disoriented. His vision was blurred, and all his ringing ears could hear were the distorted and indistinct shouts, screams and curses over the crackling embers of the raging fire behind him.

Before Price could make any attempt to drag himself up and check how hurt he was, he felt two hands grab him tight by both arms and do the work for him. As his sight slowly returned, he could see it was Ozone who, along with MacTavish, hadn't been quite so caught up in the crash and had come to the aid of his Captain.

"Hey, you okay old timer?" Ozone said, Price only just making out the words he was saying. "You went down real hard, man."

"Ugh, who are you calling old timer?" Price coughed, struggling to breathe let alone talk. "Last time I checked, I just saved your arse."

"Easy, Captain." Ozone said. "As you can see, I didn't forget it."

"Yeah, thanks. So what now?"

"Price, we've got to get to a helicopter right now." MacTavish answered gruffly. "Grim as it is, that crash has bought us some time."

Soap's words immediately made Price curious, and he couldn't help but turn to get a look at the crash site, painful as it was. In his many years of service he had seen his fair share of helicopter crashes, and more often than not had been riding on board at the time. But this one made even his mouth drop at the intense brutality of the carnage. The amount of heavy ordinance the Havoc had been carrying, mixed with all the explosives, ammunition and fuel in the safehouse had created an inferno, which then turned into a massive wall of flame that had consumed both helo and building before spreading to the surrounding trees. Nobody close by could have possibly survived. Price was both thankful and astonished to be alive even at the distance he had been from the blast.

He had another thing to be thankful for, too. The fire was, for now at least, keeping back the advance of the enemy forces. They would certainly find a way around, and fast. But it might just be the ticket they needed to escape.

"_Price?_"

"Price? Price! Snap out of it!" MacTavish ordered the attention of his mentor. "We can't stand around here like this! Are you hurt? Can you walk okay by yourself?"

"I'm fine, Soap." Price insisted, catching his breath. "Just had the wind kicked out of me, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"Good." MacTavish nodded. "Right, just follow me and Ozone. We can't waste another second, we're on borrowed time as it is."

"Alright." Price said, looking around desperately for his rifle, which he had dropped and had now seemingly disappeared. "Shit, I've only gone and lost my sodding gun."

"Don't worry about that. If you act good I'll buy you a new one."

Price groaned, pulling his Sig P226 from the holster. There had to be a rifle lying around somewhere for him to use, but the semi-automatic pistol would have to do as his main weapon for now.

"Don't worry, you might not even need it." Soap continued, smiling. "We should be out of here before you know it."

Price was surprised at Soap's newfound optimism, and as he turned to look at Ozone, he too had the same little smirk on his face. Clearly, he'd missed out on something important in the few moments he was out for the count.

"Well, do go on." Price said. "You both clearly know something I don't."

Soaps eyes lit up. "Well, as it turns out-"

"Seriously, You ain't gonna believe this."

"Let me finish, Ozone. Anyway, as it turns out, our new best friend Raptor didn't requisition those aircraft carriers just to put on a nice spectacle for us…"

"Air support?" Price's eyes went like saucers. "We're actually getting bloody air support for once?"

"Indeed we are." MacTavish said. "Found it hard to believe it myself."

"He's taking a bit of a risk isn't he? This close to the capital I mean? What if-"

"That's what I thought." Ozone interrupted again, the Canadian's exuberance causing him to frequently interrupt his senior officers without really realizing it. "But hey, he did say something about our survival being imperative, and that he'd use everything at his disposal to ensure it. So I'm all for it."

"Like you can fucking believe that." Price scoffed. "He just wants all that juicy intel those Russian feds can provide him with. But still, damn, since when were we treated with such luxuries?"

"Probably Azerbaijan."

"Bloody hell, Soap. Now that really takes me back. You've really made me feel old."

MacTavish laughed. "Feeling nostalgic are we? I agree, they really don't do suicide missions like they used to."

"You know what I mean. You remember when it was you and I, Gaz, Mac and Arem. What a team that was."

"Not to mention it was when we first met Griggs."

"Yeah." Price let out a long sigh. "Hard to believe it's just us and Nikolai now."

Soap shook his head and sighed too. "You said it."

"Sound like quite a story you two have." Ozone said, intrigued. "I've heard the rumors, but I wish I knew what you were really talking about."

"Tell you what, mate." MacTavish said, eying the helicopters. "If we actually make it out of here, I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

_"__Leftenant Jamie Mercer, you are one very lucky man."_

The SAS man was already on board the SuperHind, sitting on a metal bench with his back to the wall, trying his best to deal with the excruciating pain of his injuries. Lying unconscious on a stretcher next to him was one ominously pale looking Corporal Steyn.

"Thanks." Mercer said weakly. "I know you're right but I can't say I feel like it. What did you say you're name was, again?"

"I'm Lieutenant Monotova." Natasha, who was crouched by the door and wrapping a bandage across almost the entire length of her forearm, answered. "You can call me Natasha, I guess. I'm not sure my rank with the Federal Security Service really matters any more anyway."

"Well, when your side wins, you'll have it back, won't you?"

Natasha smiled uneasily. "Early days. Maybe."

"Well, I just wish I hadn't got myself fucked up out there. I wanted to see this fight through to the end."

"You just concentrate on getting better, alright?" Natasha lightened her tone, trying to cheer Mercer up. "You should be thankful for that fancy armor your country gave you. You only broke a few ribs, but if you had a shitty Russian vest like mine, well-"

"I'm not worried about the ribs." Mercer interrupted, his temper still short. "I'm not even too bothered about my ankle getting smashed. It's Jake I'm worried about; the expensive vest didn't do much for him. Although I can hear him breathing, so that must be bit of a good sign, right?"

"He's in a far better way than he could be, considering the extent of his injuries. As long as we get out of here soon, he'll be okay."

"God I, hope so." Mercer's voice wavered slightly. "I just can't believe the way it happened. Fucking cowards didn't even give him the chance to get back up."

"I'm afraid Spetsnaz aren't programmed to think like that, my friend."

"Well, neither are the regiment, I guess." Mercer shrugged. "You know, when I was told we were leaving Afghanistan for a new mission in Eastern Europe I was delighted. I had no idea what we were being sent into this. Helmand was a walk in the park in comparison."

"But you know very well it wasn't for nothing. Maybe knowing the boys from Hereford were with us kept them back, made them rethink a bit. We would have been massacred had it not been for you guys turning up."

Mercer smiled at her, holding his hand up to ask her to stop. "Best to save words like that for when we actually make it outta here, luv."

"Still, _Spasibo Bolshoi_."

* * *

Mercer and Natasha's attention was then turned to Archer and Toad, who had suddenly appeared at the doorway, Toad immediately taking the bandages from the floor setting about tending to his wounds.

"Christ, what happened to you?" Mercer gasped at the sight of Toad, his jacket now almost completely covered in blood.

"I just missed getting shot in the head." Toad grimaced. "I went for the more painful option instead. Fortunate compared to you two, mind."

"Indeed."

"Davidenko, what's the status on the airstrike?" Archer spoke into his comms. "Price and the others have just arrived."

"Last I heard, E.T.A four minutes."

"Good. Err...are we all accounted for?"

"We are." Davidenko informed, "Best get yourself seated, we are leaving ASAP."

"Copy that."

Archer turned and climbed aboard the Hind, wiping his forehead with his sleeve as he took his seat down next to Mercer.

"How's he doing?" He asked his fellow SAS man, looking worriedly at Steyn.

"They say he's as good as he can be." Mercer shrugged. "That's all I got, really. We won't know for sure until we get back."

"You know Steyn, he's had worse. Remember what happened in Basra? He'll be right back in no time."

"Yeah, he's probably enjoying sleeping on the job, the lazy bastard."

A few moments later a very battered-looking Price, Ozone and MacTavish gladly took their seats, followed by Kamarov and Kirshov, the latter exchanging a delighted smile with Natasha, both overjoyed to see their follow F.S.B officer make it to the helicopter more or less safe and well.

"Marki!" Natasha yelled excitedly. "You made it."

"Well, just about." Kirshov wheezed. "I did just about everything within my power to make sure I didn't"

"Not to mention he tried his best to take me with him." Kamarov quipped.

"Wait, that actually happened?" Natasha rolled her eyes. "Oh, Marki…"

"These things happen to the best of us." Archer said. "That being said, how the hell did you miss Kamarov? He's fucking huge."

"Oh, shut up." Kamarov said briskly, not amused. "Is everyone ready? It's about time we finally got out of here, the timing has to be perfect."


	25. Both Sides of the Fence

The man known as Raptor sat back in his chair, watching as the various military personnel buzzed about him like a swarm of worker bees, chattering incessantly as they passed an endless stream of reports around to each other. He may have been the man commanding them, but right now all he could do was sit, wait and hope everything went to plan. If there was one thing Raptor hated it was the feeling of absolute powerlessness that tortured his mind right now, even more than the terrible situation that was at hand. His men should have been partaking in a highly difficult but relatively straightforward mission in assisting the Loyalists. Instead, the whole thing had been nothing more than an Ultranationalist ruse, and, like so many Task Force 141 operations that had gone before it, was a twisted, nightmarish worst-case scenario. The best-case scenario now was if the brave men he sent in just about made it out with their lives.

Raptor's patience and attention had always been short at best, and right now he didn't want to spend too much time feeling like a useless, static part of the furniture. He needed something to keep him occupied, even if it was being told the information he already knew half an hour.

"You there!" He said, pointing as he picked out a random figure from the mass of the crowd, which just so happened to be a US Marine so youthful looking he was probably nothing more than a runner boy for the more elite officers on board the _Stennis._ Squinting, Raptor could just about make out the nametag on the top pocket of his fatigues. "Private Bernstein, give me a sit-rep."

Bernstein paused for a moment, taking a step back and in shock at being picked out. The entire time he had been on board the mighty aircraft carrier, Bernstein had been pondering a thousand thoughts about this enigma of a man, a man without a rank or a uniform and yet such a commanding presence over Generals, Admirals and Field Marshals. Bernstein had given the thought to the possibility that he may well have been the only person there who somehow didn't know who this dapper little man in the grey suit was, but discussions with his fellow Marines proved otherwise. Now, Raptor was asking him a question, and a simple, elementary one that he knew at that. Usually, he would simply and confidently rattle off the answer without a pause for thought. But looking into this man's glacier-cold eyes revealed an unnerving atmosphere around him, some kind of aura of an over-worldly higher power that stopped him right in his tracks.

"Uh, all waves of transports are away, sir." Bernstein finally uttered, a cold shiver running down his spine at the sight of a room full of superior officers shooting him expectant glares. "The air support has now arrived, engaging ground targets but has also engaged heavy aerial resistance."

Raptor tensed up slightly, furrowing his brow as he leaned forward in his chair. "What kind of aerial resistance?"

"You name it, they're throwing it at us, sir." A straight-laced, classically handsome US Air Force officer answered Bernstein's question for him, much to the Marine's relief. The man Raptor probably should have asked in the first place seeing that it was the Air Force, after all, who would be covering the 141's retreat. "Most interesting is that they have finally given us a good look at the PAK FA."

"Ah, the T-50?" Raptor leaned even closer. "You mean the Russian answer to the F-22?"

"Yes, sir, yes it is." The poster-boy airman confirmed for him. "Ascetically speaking, it looks as if Ivan simply traced over the picture of your namesake stealth fighter, but it really is quite a machine in it's own right, above and beyond almost everything we have."

"Not too much trouble for your boys, I hope."

"Are you kidding me?" The officer might not be up there flying with his comrades, but his wide grin showed he was obviously feeling the same adrenaline, the thrill of the battle. "We've been waiting our whole careers for a true old-fashioned dogfight. I can tell you now, sir, they're relishing it."

"Outstanding, I just hope they don't get relish it too much, or they'll forget the objective in their excitement. " Raptor struggled not to snicker at the sight of the prissy officer in front of him, reduced to an overexcited kid on Christmas morning at the thought of jets fighting each other.

"No, sir, of course not." The airman straightened up immediately, impressively removing any trace of emotion from his face in an instant. "It's a veritable aerial armada we have at our disposal, with five confirmed kills already. One little fight of helicopters can disappear under the radar in the heat of the battle. They'll make it back."

"I'd damn hope so." Raptor crossed his arms. "They've got a lot of Russia to get through yet."

* * *

_"You've got to be fucking kidding me, Commander."_

Commander Valentina Redinova of the Federal Security Service Special Operations Division recognized the voice before she even had a chance to turn around to see the face of the owner. Tall, flame-haired with smart sky blue eyes and porcelain pale skin, the thirty-seven year old Commander had been born a natural leader, rising to the prestigious rank at an alarmingly fast rate. Since the beginning of her service she had been constantly impressing superiors with her masterful tactician skills, cool levelheadedness and her true unmoving devotion to her country and her cause. It didn't to any harm to her career that even after a decade and a half of loyal service, she still had a one hundred per cent mission success rate.

Today would be the day that success rate was brought to an abrupt and unceremonious end. Right now she felt sick to the depths of her very stomach, mouth dryer than a desert and her heart running fast, the blood flowing through her veins like ice, and she struggled to hold back the primal urge to give it all up, collapse to her knees and scream at the very top of her lungs, or break down into a cascade of tears. But Valentina knew that simply was not an option for an officer of her standing. She had to fight it, and she had to turn around and face her fate head-on, whatever it may be.

A look around confirmed that the voice belong to that of General Oleg Greyenko, standing imposingly like a Greek statue only inches behind her and flanked by the shorter but equally stone-like figure of Major Georgi Krukov. Both men wore the olive dress uniforms of Russian Army officers, high-peaked caps and blazers festooned with such a array of medals that their collective weight must have been three times as much as the garments themselves. The two looked like they had just been transported directly from the 'glory days' of the pages of Soviet iron curtain history books, even compared to Redinova's own Germanic jet-black F.S.B getup. But being hard-line, head-breaking Ultranationalists and two of the main brains behind Directive Collateral, Greyenko and Krukov spent every waking second living up to that image as much as possible.

"General!" Redinova stood straight like a pillar and gave a lightning quick salute, showing not a single sign of the intense emotion that ripped through ever fiber of her being. For once, she felt lucky to have been stuck with such a pasty ghost-like complexion, as anyone else would have gone tellingly white as a sheet in terror. "General, I can explain..."

"Stop, Commander." The displeasure in Greyenko's tone was more than obvious, and perfectly understandable. "I don't think I need your excuses to tell me what has happened here, what I've seen with my own eyes tells me more than enough."

"You failed." Krukov added insult to injury, his arms folded, and his voice a robotic, single unvaried tone. "That's all there is to say. But your reputation precedes you, Redinova. We thought you were the right person for this job."

"I was, Major." Valentina's attempts to not sound desperate were falling at the first hurdle. "I…I am. They won't have got far; we can still cut off their escape route if-"

"Forget it, Commander." Greyenko butted in, taking a step forward and resting his hand on Redinova's shoulder. If it had been an attempt to calm and comfort her, it didn't work. She was still bordering on hyperventilating. "I'll take it from here, Valentina. I'm relieving you of your command. Go home, get some rest."

"This was supposed to be a simple counter-terrorism mission." Redinova's armor was gone, and now as she looked at the general, everything about her expression was blank, vacant and defeated. "If I was aware they had the goddamn cavalry on standby, I would have done things differently."

"You mean, you wouldn't have had a nice long discussion with Davidenko and his accomplices, giving them the time to regroup, strategize and prepare. An elementary error, you were foolish."

"But, sir." Redinova pleaded. "I couldn't have just killed a man such as Davidenko in his sleep. There is a code of honor with a fellow officer, a fair fight."

"A man such as Davidenko?" Greyenko raised an eyebrow, bemused. "There is a word we use to describe the kind of man Davidenko is. That word is traitor. The man who lives by treason and betrayal does not have a code, they do not believe in honor and fairness like you do and they should be treated as such. What you should have shown him is that if you live by the way of the cloak and dagger, you better make damn sure the dagger doesn't come right around to stab you in he back."

"We can still eliminate them all right now." Redinova wasn't going down without a verbal battle. "We can pool resources and blow them out of the sky before they get anywhere close to border, and-"

Greyenko shook his head, ordering silence. "That's enough, Commander. We cannot waste any more elite troops, flagship aircraft and frontline equipment, not in the grip a civil war, we've given you more than enough already."

"What?" Redinova was taken aback. "But this could end the civil war! You're going to just let them win?"

"Win?" Greyenko looked directly into her eyes and a confidently smiled. "Take a look at what is actually happening. They are running away. We've unmasked the bastards, shown them for who they really are, cowards and liars. If they've got any sense, they'll never set foot in their homeland again. As for the 'mighty' Task Force, they've blown any hope of winning a war by hiding in the shadows."

"No, sir." Valentina took a sharp intake of breath, composing herself once more. "But they'll be straight back here"

"Of course they will. And we'll be waiting for them when they arrive. Look Valentina, today may be a very large blot on what has been a miraculous career, but don't worry, you're not going to be stripped of rank or exiled to the salt mines of Siberia. Tell you what if you want a shot at redemption, you head to Moscow right now and await further instructions."

"What? Why?"

"You'll see, Commander." Greyenko gave the wry look of a man who wasn't going to give anything away just yet, earning a stare of confusion even from Major Krukov.

"Trust me, if you succeed, you'll forget today ever even happened."

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks for all the reads and reviews so far, all feedback is truly appreciated. In case you were wondering, Ordnance is my new username, purely as I kept misspelling the old one.


	26. We're Not Here to Lose

2 Days later. Russia.

_Be careful what you wish for. _These were the words that currently plagued the mind of Corporal Dunn of the 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment of the United States Army Rangers.

Only a few days had passed since the Corporal, alongside his Hunter Two-One unit, had stood atop the roof of the White House, overlooking the burning city of Washington D.C following the battle of Virginia. It was Hunter Two-One, under the command of the charismatic Sergeant Foley, who had been tasked with retaking the White House from the Russians and, the mission proving a success, thus prevented an airstrike that would have flattened the entire city. This was more than enough to earn each man the Congressional Medal of Honor, and as saviors of the capital city as well as national war heroes, they were pretty much gifted the chance never see the front lines again by command, making a living from posing for propaganda posters instead. But that wasn't what any Ranger would want, and Hunter-Two-One unanimously chose the next posting to be right on the front lines of the counterattack, each relishing the opportunity to unleash their vengeance on Ultranationalist Russia more than the last. Given the chance, they would raze it to the ground, but with Russia and America being under such a tense 'ceasefire', they had no choice but to be sent into the murky realm of underground deniable operations, fighting alongside a team of recon Marines who, much like them, were veterans of fierce fighting on the West Coast and had volunteered for this op. Begrudgingly, they would also be helping out local anti-government Russian forces.

This wasn't what Dunn wanted at all. He was hoping for America to show its full military capability to the Russians, showing up in its entirety on their doorstep to give them a real taste of merciless revenge. He had expected the retaliation to be swift and shocking, for the Siberian skies to fill with B-52s, for blood to run in the streets and for Hunter Two-One to personally raise the stars and stripes over the rubble and ruins of red square. Instead, America wanted to be the man behind the curtain, helping the Loyalists or anybody else who hated the government tear apart the country from the inside, while they sat back and dictated the moves. The cowardice sickened Dunn.

Instead of anything poetic, he was instead now trapped on the second floor disgusting and dilapidated old Soviet apartment complex in St. Petersburg, wearing Loyalist-style guerilla clothes and cowering from enemy sniper fire as the Anti-Government Russians stepped up their civil war outside, every day taking more and more from the Ultranationalists, but not managing anywhere near as big as this city and Moscow was still the far-off impregnable fortress. They needed some expert assistance to kickstart their campaign. This is where the Rangers and the Marines stepped in.

"Carver, we can't just get stuck here forever!" Sergeant Foley looked over to the Marine Lieutenant crouched in cover next to him. "We need to get through this complex soon, the Loyalists will be waiting for us. Any ideas?"

Lieutenant Michael Carver didn't respond to Foley at first, instead choosing to break from cover, looking up with his binoculars momentarily, jumping back down just before the inevitable response of a shower of sharpshooter and light machine gun fire from the parallel apartment block started, rattling into the walls inches from his position.

"Right." Carver breathed as he covered back down, catching his breath as the enemy fire still continuing for a good ten seconds afterwards before finally petering out as they gave up on taking him out for now. "There's defiantly a sniper on the fifth floor, to the far right."

"I pretty much gathered that already." Foley frowned slightly at Carver's stating of the obvious. "You got anything else, genius?"

"Yeah, yeah don't worry." Carver continued. "I was getting to that, Sergeant. There are at least two machine gunners as well and god knows how many other foot-mobiles. Those, I didn't see, but I'm sure even you can hear them."

"Walk in the park, right?'

"Well, I think we can deal with them." Carver smiled cautiously.

Dunn looked less than confident at the Marine Lieutenant's words. "And what the hell are we supposed to do, exactly? We're not just sitting here."

"Yeah, of course. We're going to need some covering fire from up here as well as smoke to cover us down in the square. We're going to have to storm that building sooner or later, might as well do it now and get it over with. I'll have Corporal Janis come along. Foley, you with me?"

"Hooah." Foley nodded, turning to his team. "I'll come too. Dunn, Ramirez, you're with Carver and me. We're going to rush these bastards. Everyone else, get ready to hit that damn building with whatever you've got."

"Got that." Dunn said, licking his lips in anticipation as he tightly gripped his heavily customized FN SCAR rifle. _Finally, some real action_, he thought to himself.

"Let's do this." Ramirez added.

The young Private James Ramirez, who in his short time as a Ranger had seen more than most grizzled soldiers do in their entire careers, was a very different man to the one Dunn had first met only a short time ago in Afghanistan. A man of few words, the American campaign had been pretty much been his first taste of true combat, and although he still had his Latin good looks, his arms carried heavy scarring from a helicopter crash, as well as the mental scars nobody can see. The war had turned him into a truly vicious and formidable fighter, even compared to the other Rangers. Imposing as he may be, he was definitely the man you wanted watching your back, and was always willing to be the first to change head-on into the battle.

"Alright!" Foley yelled. "Cover us!"

Dunn was immediately caught of guard by how rapidly the Sergeant and Carver raced for the stairway, the soldiers and Marines behind him barging him out of the way as they followed suit. He couldn't let his lapse daunt him, though, and the Corporal gritted his teeth and started to run. When he reached the base of the stairway, Carver and Foley were already reading smoke grenades by the doorway.

"Ready?" Foley said, waiting patiently for the pop of the grenades, which seemed to take eons to eventually happen. "On me! Go, GO!"

The kill zone of the square between the structures was probably less than 100 meters in width, and an easy sprint for pretty much anyone, let alone a soldier. With the heavy covering fire from the team, as well the blanket of smoke that now covered the area, although that thoughts of relative safety were dashed by the close shots that immediately raked around them, confirming thermal weaponry in the hands of the enemy. Before Dunn had any more time to think, however, he was already passing through the doorway of the target building, which had thankfully been left open. Dunn readied his rifle, eager to engage the tangos that waited within.

Only there weren't any.

"Clear!" Ramirez called from the front.

"Clear!" Carver shouted from one of the side rooms.

"Room clear!" Foley confirmed as they regrouped. "Come on, move up and stay frosty. Team Two, we are moving to the second floor, hold your fire."

"Solid Copy, Team One." Said the voice of one of the Marines.

A check of the second floor revealed it to be much like the first, as in it was completely devoid of any enemies, even the rooms themselves lacking furnishings, as if the whole place had been prepared days in advance. On first glance, the third looked much the same, to the point where it lulled Dunn into a false sense of security, right up to the point where he casually walked into a room housing a swiveling tripod-mounted KPV Heavy Machine Gun. Fitted with a highly advanced thermal motion sensor, the machine gun would open fire on anybody that wasn't marked with the strobes of friendly combatant. Seeing that Dunn was very much the enemy, he had about two seconds to react. He wasted the first; simply freezing on the spot and gawping at one of the most fearsome weapons he had ever set eyes upon. On the second, Ramirez intervened, tackling Dunn hard from a side doorway and throwing him at full force into the next room. As both men skidded along the floor, the heavily modified KPV let rip with a deafening roar, tearing the thick concrete walls to a fine dust as it spat heavy tungsten-core armor piercing rounds, only a few inches from tearing Dunn and Ramirez to shreds before Foley put a stop to it, firing a grenade from the M203 launcher of his rifle into the room, before the sensor could get a bead on him too, blowing the turret to pieces and ordering silence to return.

In the next few moments, Dunn could do nothing but lay silently on the floor in shock, his eyes wide and his ears ringing. Ramirez seemed a whole lot less fazed, immediately getting up off the floor and setting about dusting himself off, looking back to give Dunn a look that was both thankful for his friend still being alive, and intensely angry at the Corporal for almost getting him killed.

"Oh my god." Dunn eventually gasped. "Wha...What the hell was that?"

"We've been trapped." Foley answered. "Just an idea, but I think we might be working against one very serious professional. Possibly a hired gun working alone for the Ultranationalists or somebody within their own Special Forces."

"For what it's worth." Carver said, observing the remains of the turret. "I agree with you Sergeant. This guy is a master manipulator. He made it look like a building full of enemies firing wildly at us, tricking us into thinking that by storming the building we would catch these assholes by surprise, but it's exactly what this bastard wants. The machine gun wasn't set up to fire on the building at all, or even at the square like you'd expect. It was programmed and placed for one purpose, and that was to kill anybody who entered this room."

"So, what exactly do you suggest we do now?" Dunn asked, getting back on to his feet.

"We have to take this guy down." Carver said sternly. "My guess is that the Russians have found out exactly who we are, and with the prospect of some more American blood without the usual international incident aftertaste, they're throwing the best they have at us. He's probably wired this place as a fucked-up maze of traps, but I know he's still here. I saw him up there and he has no method of escape."

"But why would he put himself at risk like that?" Ramirez pondered. "I mean, if he's got a high-tech arsenal at his command, wouldn't he rather snipe at us from another building when we're sitting ducks, caught in his traps?"

"Yeah, Private, that's the part that doesn't make any sense to me either." Foley replied. "Of course, there's the possibility that we've unknowingly backed a sharpshooter into a corner, and he's making his last stand, improvising with what little of his inventory he has left, or… or maybe we should stop thinking up a million theories and just take this prick down."

"Good thinking." Carver nodded. "We'll find out eventually, I guess. But for god's sake, be extra fucking vigilant."


	27. Brief Respite

**Author's note: Sorry this chapter is so seriously delayed, work commitments and writers block were a bit of a problem. I pretty much have it sorted, so only a few chapters to go now.**

* * *

Archer wasn't quite sure when he gone out cold, nor what it was exactly that stirred him back into consciousness, but once he opened his eyes he could not believe what they were telling him. Approaching fast in surrounding sea was the familiar sight of the _USS John C. Stennis, _a sight that was usually grey, cold and foreboding, but right now it was about as welcome as any sight could get. Through the miracle that was the intervention of the allied air support, the remaining Loyalist helicopters had made it back safely and more or less in one piece. As if his mind wasn't already completely besieged with the hope that Mercer and Steyn would make full recoveries, the queries of the events of the past few days had given Archer even more to wonder, a hundred more things that haunted him in the way that they just didn't add up or make any kind of logical sense. The Ultranationalists had their arch nemesis on a silver platter, caught short and ripe for the killing. Even if they had genuinely faltered to eliminate the target the first time, they appeared to simply sit back and allow them to escape afterwards. It was if it had all been a twisted test, or as if the Russians simply thought they were wasting too many resources on a lesser threat. In a way, that made the most sense, with Makarov still being at large and the bizarre possibility that he could have formed a fragile coalition with Klossovsky.

Archer didn't want to think any more, he just wanted to get off this helicopter he had been convinced would become his fiery tomb. One glance around the passenger bay confirmed that everyone else, even Price, was thinking the same thing, faces pale, blank, emotionless, downtrodden and defeated.

As the tires of the SuperHind touched down on the flight deck, Archer took a deep breath, eyeing the welcome party that was already halfway to meeting them, carrying stretchers and by the looks on their faces, anticipating the very worst. As one of the Loyalist soldiers slid back the passenger door, Archer jumped down to the deck, amazed that his two legs actually carried him rather than just collapsed underneath his weight.

"You alright there, sir?" An uneasy voice ahead of him asked. Archer lifted his head up, brushing his hair out of his face to see a concerned looking American soldier.

"Oh, I'm just great." Archer remarked wearily. "Russia was just lovely. You should visit there yourself some time."

The American ignored Archer's wall of sarcasm, breaking through with a simple, understanding look.

"Do you need a hand?" He asked, gesturing towards a stretcher.

"No, but we have men in a critical condition, they could use it. Just tell me where I can find Raptor."

The soldier nodded. "Alright. Mess hall, he's setting up an emergency meeting for you. You know where that is?"

"Yeah. I can take myself. Thanks"

The soldier nodded and Archer turned away, trudging down the flight deck with his hands in his pockets, trying to cope with his aching body and perplexed mental state. He wanted to forget that the events of the last few hours had even happened, but there was no way he could possibly blot them out, and if there were too many worries and unanswered questions before and there were even more now. At least one thing was obvious, and that was the fact that Boris Vorshevsky and his Ultranationalist party were alive and well and still a major player, a far cry from the spent force everybody had assumed them to be. But Archer was beyond the point of even bothering to think about questioning the situation, he just wanted to find Raptor and get his new orders.

"Not thinking of leaving, are ya?" The American accent was harsh and sore sounding, as if it pained the speaker to even talk, but was still the unmistakable voice of Toad, who was just exiting the helicopter.

"No, not at all." Archer said before looking back. "I'm off to see our esteemed leader."

"Who?"

"You know." Archer raised an eyebrow, not sure if Toad was serious or not. "Raptor."

"Oh, right, yeah." Toad grinned and stepped forward. "Well, I'm coming too."

"No, you're not." Archer told him, crossing his arms. "You're in no fit state to do anything other than go see the medic. You need rest."

"No, I'm fine. I'll have plenty of time to rest when I'm dead."

"Fine with me." A smile flickered across Archer's face momentarily, although he seemed slightly aggravated at Toad's refusal. "Should've known better."

Usually, Toad would have jokingly reminded Archer of his stubbornness, but his friend just seemed different than usual, and despite the fact that his stoic, cold professionalism remained it was obvious that the condition of his injured comrades was going to be troubling him until he had a chance to find out how severe their wounds truly were, especially Steyn, who had remained unconscious from the moment he hit the ground.

"Look, they'll be alright." Toad said, unsure of the words he was saying but doing his best to convince otherwise. "They will, with the best medics in the world to help them, we'll have your buddies back with us in no time. Things didn't work out the way we planned, I know, but they weren't disastrous. I mean, with the intelligence our FSB friends can give us, we can strike back immediately."

Archer didn't say a word; he merely grunted knowingly and nodded, trying to give at least a slight smile of appreciation for Toad's attempt at encouragement before motioning the Marine to follow as he continued on his way.

* * *

To hear that his Task Force team had returned, all alive if not all combat effective, was a shock to Raptor to say the least. He was, of course, delighted to hear the news, but it hadn't stopped him from the activity of pacing the length of the mess hall, which he had been doing for what must have been hours, his mind in a completely different place to the claustrophobic bustle of the aircraft carrier, to the point that when Archer and Toad walked in, he was caught completely off guard.

"Sir?"

Hearing the sound of Archer's voice caused Raptor to swivel on his heel, still not quite believing what he was seeing. Vorshevsky and his Ultranationalists one-upping him had genuinely affected him, and his appearance surprised Archer, as even though the sniper had been the one fighting off the ambush behind enemy lines, his commander looked equally withdrawn and withered by the events, despite having watched on from a comfortable seat

"Ah, Archer." The exhaustion in Raptors tone surprised even him. "You made it out."

"Yeah." Archer breathed. "Through sheer blind luck rather than judgment, sir."

"You'll have the Air Force to thank for escorting you back." Raptor pointed out. "But I'm damn glad to see you back in one piece, you too, Sergeant. What's the status casualty wise?"

"Well, somehow it's mostly the usual cuts and bruises with most of us." Toad explained, himself with a fair few to display. "But Mercer and Steyn are both injured with gunshot wounds, Steyn critically."

Raptor nodded at Toad before looking back to Archer. "Don't worry, son. They're in the best hands possible now."

"So I keep getting told." Archer replied wearily. "But we were lucky to have the Russian Loyalists and defectors on our side. There were a lot of them, and they suffered a serious amount of fatalities to see we made it out. Without them, it would be far worse."

"Oh, I know." Raptor said. "I eagerly await to speak with Kamarov and Davidenko."

"They're on their way." Archer informed. "Along with the others. I'll presume they need a brief respite and time to debrief their men, of course."

"Oh, absolutely. I was hoping to speak to you two separately anyway, there is somebody I want you to meet."


	28. Brothers and Sons

The nuclear-powered _Nimitz_-class super carriers of the United States Navy such as the USS John C. Stennis are the biggest warships of any navy in the world, at 1,092 feet in length overall. Right now Archer and Toad felt like Raptor had been guiding them right across every seemingly infinite inch of this leviathan of a vessel, a walk that took a good fifteen minutes before finally stopping at the doorway to a large briefing room with two Marines standing guard on either side, who immediately saluted upon noticing Raptor's presence.

"Stay here a moment." Raptor ordered, looking back at Archer and Toad. "This won't take long, that's a promise."

"Long as it takes, sir." Archer said, giving a single nod in unison with Toad.

Raptor gave a wry smile at the SAS Leftenant's words, pausing momentarily before heading into the room.

"Ah! Raptor!" A Russian-accented voice that was definitely familiar sounding but neither Archer nor Toad could quite pinpoint, welcomed within. "We were wondering where you had gotten to."

"Come on, you knew exactly where I was." Raptor replied. "Anyway, gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that two of my aforementioned Task Force operatives are here to see you at this present moment."

"Well? What are you waiting for?" A different man, an American this time and with the obvious accent of a Texan, said. "Please, do send them in."

Raptor did as asked, and the Marines at the door immediately and simultaneously gestured for Archer and Toad to enter the brightly-lit room, which had blueprints, maps and chalkboards covering the walls and was dominated by one huge monitoring screen displaying a map of the world at the back. In the middle of the room sat a massive table and numerous computers, but only two suited civilian-looking men sat there. Archer and Toad immediately recognized one of them, but find it quite hard to comprehend that it really was whom their eyes were telling them it was.

For the man who sat seated closest to them was Vasily Vorshevsky, the son of the president of Ultranationalist Russia and a man they had last seen in Monaco, aboard billionaire Sergey Kovas' superyacht the _Epsilon_, where the Task Force had just been on time to save his life from an attack by would-be assailants whose identity still remained a mystery. At the time, Raptor had informed them that it would be rogue FSB agents that would be waiting for them there, but after the events of the past few days, this seemed rather unlikely. Both Archer and Toad wanted to speak to him to find out, but initially found it physically impossible. Hardly surprising, having the son of head of the enemy faction on board a warship of the United States was quite the revelation.

"Mr. Vorshevsky?" Archer eventually mustered. "Well, this is quite the surprise. How is our friend Kovas?"

"He is well, and it's a surprise for me, too." The Russian replied. "It's good to see you again, and now I finally get the chance to thank you for what you did in Monaco. Anyway, as I am sure you are wondering about my presence on this ship, allow me to explain. I am here by my own request, for my own protection. I am no longer safe in my home country."

"You're not safe in Russia?" Toad raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "I mean, your father is the goddamned president. There must be somewhere you can go."

"It's my father of mine that the is the reason that I have to watch my back." Vorshevsky explained. "To a far further extent even than Makarov, the Loyalists and the Defectors. If you were wondering who attacked us on the yacht, I was rather intrigued too. I used every means at my disposal to find out who was responsible, and it turned out to be a team of Ultranationalist mercenaries on the payroll of a General named Greyenko, a good friend of my father. Obviously, they used American equipment to make it look like the United States wanted to sabotage any hopes of peace through assassinating me, as well as give my father a decent reason to set the war off."

"Fucking hell." Toad breathed. "So he was just using you as the spark? He didn't care that he was ordering the death of his own son?"

"Pretty much." Vorshevsky shrugged. "He's always put his country, and his ideals, far ahead of himself or his family. My views have always been far too progressive for his liking; I guess to him I was another dirty capitalist who had to be destroyed, now-"

"This is all very upsetting." Archer cut in. "But with all due respect to you, I'm not entirely sure what we can do about it at present. You must have heard about what happened to us in Russia."

"Yes, yes I did." Vasily said. "I was getting to that point. As I looked further into Greyenko's background and eventually found out the most disturbing part. The General, along with a Major called Krukov, were behind an operation of deception known as Directive Collateral. I had to warn my new allies about it, but by the time I was able to get through to Raptor, it had already begun. I'm glad you made it out."

"Yeah well, just about." Archer said sternly. "A lot didn't."

"Da, we know, we know." Vorshevsky nodded and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to hear about it."

The second man, who must had to be the Texan, rose to his feet, ready to introduce himself. He was a slender, studious looking man with black, slicked back hair that looked straight out of a fifties movie. Before he spoke he adjusted his tie, and the thought that two disheveled, bloodied and bruised warriors would pause at all to consider the man's physical appearance was something that highly amused Archer and Toad.

"Gentlemen, it's great to finally see the faces behind those crazy stories Raptor has told me about." The Texan said. "Jared Boone, White House Chief of Staff."

"It's an honor, sir." Archer said, as he and Toad stood straight. "Glad to see you had a great escape of your own, sir."

"As am I, son." Boone continued. "Well, the rebuild is under way, but that's not why I'm here. What I am here for is the sheer level of intelligence that our friends from the East have been able to provide us with. I'm going to put this into simple terms, in ordering Directive Collateral, Greyenko, Ivanov and Vorshevsky haven't just let their enemies show their true faces and reactivated the civil war."

"No, sir?" Toad queried.

"No, he's also fucked over a serious amount of very important people, and I mean the type of people who some might say have a higher standing in the country than the president himself. I mean intelligence officials, multi-billionaires, the goddamn Russian mafia, not to mention those within the Ultranationalist government who see him as a total incompetent, and wished to see him displaced and somebody with a more focused vision put in his seat."

"So he's dealing with a possible coup to go with his civil war." Toad shrugged. "All that means is just another psycho replacing a psycho. But I presume that this means Vorshevsky and his head honchos have headed underground."

"Indeed, Sergeant." Boone responded. "He won't be in Moscow himself, we know that. What we do know is that there are only so many places left for him to hide."

"All very well." Archer didn't sound entirely positive. "As long as we don't stumble into a trap again, I'm all for any incursion you might suggest."

"There will be no repeat performances, Archer." Raptor reassured. "The intelligence the Russians are providing us with is far beyond anything we've had before, I shit you not. This stuff is deep and hard, we're getting closer than ever to ending this, and I know it."

"I hope you're right." Archer replied. " The moment we're needed, sir, just say."

"Will do." Raptor said. "Right now I have to speak to my other favorite duo, so you're dismissed for now. You two get something to eat and a coffee or something. You certainly earned that at least."

"Yes, sir." Archer said with a nod.

"Thank you, sir." Toad added.

The two men saluted, turned on their heels and swiftly exited the briefing room, carrying on up the corridor without a word or any show of emotion. As they finally made it onto an empty hallway and out of anyone's hearing distance, Archer turned to speak with Toad.

"I don't know about you." He said. "But I'm not sure if I really believed any of that."

"Oorah. Probably best thing to do in this situation is not to think too much."


	29. Not Your Average Trooper

The relief Ozone felt as he stepped out of the medical facility and was handed back his rifle was quite possibly the greatest he had ever felt in his life. He may only just have recovered from his previous injuries, but he had been a part of this battle since the very beginning, and he had fought too hard and lost too much to have broken bones now, and be forced to sit out the conclusion. Even if he had, they would have trouble stopping him. While he was still suffering the discomfort of his injuries that still lingered, the news that they were purely cosmetic was a vindication.

Even with his all clear physically, however, the back of Ozone's mind still remained uneasy with the decision he had made back in Russia, a decision that got two of Archer's old team wounded, and almost killed. Deep down in him, however, Ozone knew that not only had his judgment been correct, his choice had been the only one he could have realistically made. If he had sat back and allowed the Loyalist MG position to be overrun, he knew he wouldn't have been able to live with himself. Above all, he knew that Mercer and Steyn would agree with him. There was nothing more he could do about it, and now all he had left to do was try his best keep his mind off the pain, both physical and mental, and keep it on getting right back out into the fight and continuing his mission.

As he entered the mess hall, it had become obvious that the Loyalists had immediately set about making the area their new temporary control center, whether the current residents liked it or not. Even to Ozone, who had been fighting right alongside these people for some time, this sight was almost like a slip into a parallel universe. Even during peacetime a Russian presence on board an American ship would be treated with a huge amount of mistrust and suspicion, and after the events of what were really only a few days ago it should have been impossible. Yet here they were, an it wasn't like they were the first Russians on this ship, as much to the displeasure of the Navy, Raptor had allowed the carriers to be used as launch pads for the Loyalist airborne attacks, to the point where the sight of a Russian helicopter or fighter jet on the flight deck had become so frequent it was no longer bizarre.

The first to greet Ozone was Kamarov, who despite looking much like he had been hit by a fright train, had already reverted to his optimistic self, and had been busy briefing Nikolai, who was seated opposite to him, on the events of the past few hours.

"Ah, my friend!" Kamarov greeted, leaping up from his chair. "It is so good to see you. Feeling better?"

"Why, I'm better than ever!" Ozone's expression showed he very much meant the words. "Besides, since when did a little pain ever hurt anyone?"

"That's the spirit." Kamarov smiled. "Anyway, my men told me about what you did at the machine-gun position. To them, you are a hero already. I really can't thank you enough."

"It's Mercer and Steyn who are the real heroes you should thank." Ozone told him. "It's just you can't do it at the moment."

Kamarov looked back somberly and gave a single nod. "I understand. I will most certainly thank them when the time comes."

"Good man." Ozone scanned the mess hall. "You know where Archer and Toad got to?"

"Not sure." Kamarov shook his head. "I was told that Raptor was debriefing them, I think. You can go look for them, if you wish, but I wouldn't suggest it. This is one big ship."

"I can see that buddy. Screw it, they can find me here, Right now, I'm gonna get myself a drink, cause let me tell you, I sure as hell need one."

As Ozone went on his way in the pursuit of a beverage, Commander Davidenko entered the room, his face deep in concentration and his brow furrowed as he busily scribbled down on a notepad, completely away with the world as he tried his very hardest to make full sense of this whole nightmare.

"What's on your mind, Commander?" Kamarov asked.

"Too much." Davidenko retorted "Way too much. Yourself?"

"You know me, Davidenko." Kamarov said. "I'm not much of a thinker. Right now, I'm just glad to be breathing."

"Aren't we all, comrade." Davidenko dropped his notepad down onto the table and took a seat next to Lieutenants Marki Kirshov and Natasha Monotova. "I have to confess, I'm still struggling to take it all in."

"Oh, I know." Kirshov added. "Commander Redinova, man. Redi-fucking-nova, I should have known she'd turn up, that fucking bitch."

"Enough, Lieutenant." Davidenko cut in. "Valentina Redinova is just another good soldier with their heart in the right place but with strings being pulled by the wrong people. Do not concentrate your anger on her, it's the corrupting puppet masters who force good people into evil deeds, men like General Greyenko are the true villains."

Kirshov looked perplexed. "True villains? You don't think the person who ordered Alpha Group to exterminate you is in any way…you know, villainous? If I may ask, are you feeling alright, sir?"

"You may not."

"Maintain discipline Marki." Natasha snapped. "Much as you may have a point. Few escape Alpha Groups clutches. If the Task Force hadn't shown up, we would, well-"

"Don't hammer that home, Monotova, we all know." Davidenko frowned and crossed his arms. "What's your point, anyway?"

"I don't think I have one." Natasha sighed in frustration as she leant back in her chair, reached into the top pocket of her combat jacket, and pulled out a pack of Sobraine cigarettes, offering them around the table.

"You can't smoke here." Davidenko told her. "Go outside, if you really must."

"_Chyort_." Natasha muttered in irritation, throwing the pack to one side. "Whatever, I'll move on. Ivan Mashkov, he was Alpha group once, wasn't he? I'm just glad he didn't get to see us fighting his old comrades-in-arms like that. He sure would have hated it."

"Mashkov wouldn't have cared in the slightest, Natasha." Kamarov replied. "You know that as well as anyone. Former Spetsnaz he might have been, but you don't get to be Commander of the Loyalists in the field by being haphazard with your devotion to the cause."

"He was a true Loyalist." Nikolai interjected. "A true patriot to the end. Old unit or not, no Ultranationalist should stand in your way. A target's a target."

"It most certainly is." Kirshov nodded his head "And way too many of our targets are still standing and breathing for my liking. You know, the way I see it, the seconds we're spending talking about this bullshit are valuable seconds wasted that we could be spending putting these bastards in their place."

* * *

_All of this effort for one damn guy? What the hell am I doing? _

Corporal Dunn gritted his teeth as he took point, at last in the knowledge that he had reached the final floor of the apartment complex. The thrill of the chase was kicking in big time now for the Army Ranger, especially as this sniper had tipped the balance between hunters and hunted far too many times over the course of this pursuit. But now it was the Americans who were very much closing in on the prey now, and hearing the sniper moving around on the same floor got Dunn's heart thundering, knowing that without a staircase leading down on his side, and only skylights allowing access to the roof, the sniper was trapped. Dunn pretty much had him, and all he had to do now was not to allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security and fall into yet another one of the Russian's elaborate traps. He may very well have saved the best till last. Either way, the showdown was very quickly approaching, and everyone had to be ready.

"Room one is clear." Dunn informed. "Proceeding to the main corridor to the east wing, over."

"Solid copy, Corporal." Sergeant Foley responded. "Stay frosty, we're getting real close."

As his pulse seemed to run off the scale, Dunn made his way down the deserted hallway, scanning desperately for improvised explosive devices or any other kind of trap the sniper could use to regain the initiative. He had reached the halfway mark when two tiny plastic boxes attached to the walls on either side caught his attention. They were so small that a less keen eye would have easily missed them, and they were almost certainly a type of motion sensor, possibly a trip to detonate a larger explosive. Upon this discovery, Dunn held his hand out in a fist to order the rest of the team to halt.

"Foley, motion sensor." Dunn informed with a whisper to his comms. "I'm going to deactivate it, watch my six."

"Roger that."

Dunn took one long deep breath in anticipation as he allowed his assault rifle to hang loosely in the sling, and approached the device with upmost cautiousness. The biting, bitterly cold of this day in St. Petersburg was enough to cause a strong man to freeze to death, but this didn't stop the sweat from dripping down his forehead.

As he put one hand around the senor, Dunn could immediately tell that something was just not quite right, a sense of intuition that straight away was proven to be absolutely correct, as his first small tap to the plastic casing caused the whole box to fall apart in his hands, revealing that there was no beam, and no electrical equipment inside whatsoever. It was a dummy designed purely to gain the attention of a hostile, and more importantly, it was a snare that had worked perfectly.

'_Oh shit'_ was just about all Dunn had time to think to himself before a Gorka-suited, knife-carrying Russian commando emerged from the nearest adjacent doorway, screaming at the top of his lungs and charging with such speed that Sgt. Foley had no time to get a shot on him. Dunn had less than seconds to react, but only just managed to grab the forearm of his attacker inches before the blade connected with his throat. Dunn then attempted to twist his assailant's arm back and disarm him, only for the much bigger man to huge his strength advantage to push the Corporal backwards, before leaning back slightly and side kicking him so hard in the ribcage that he was sent collapsing backwards into Foley, both Rangers losing their balance and falling to the floor.

The sniper could have gone straight for the kill on both of them there and then, and with exceptional ease. Instead, though, he made the decision to make good his escape and darted down the corridor, almost reaching the stairwell before Lieutenant Carver stepped out into the last doorway to stop him, but was already far too late, not even allowing enough time to raise his M16A4 before the Russian grabbed and pushed away the rifle by the forend with one hand, and struck Carver in the head with the other. With the precious moments where Carver was shocked and dazed, the Russian took control and grabbed the Marine by the collar, then used a leg sweep to throw him violently to the floor. This time, the sniper did go for his sidearm to finish the fight off, upholstering his viciously powerful MP-412 REX magnum revolver, only for Private Ramirez to appear in the doorway and be greeted by the Russian switching to take aim at him instead.

Caught off-guard, there was no chance that Ramirez was going to be the one to fire first, but today his luck was in. In spite of the quite considerable pain he had been subjected to, Corporal Dunn had been so quick to his feet he had surprised even himself, and just as the Russian squeezed the trigger, Dunn tackled him hard, sending him flying and knocking the revolver off target as it went off, the round smashing harmlessly into the wall behind as Ramirez dived for cover. The sniper scrambled to his feet first, only to realize straight away that getting out of this building alive was now impossible with the amount of firearms pointed in his direction.

"Wait!" He pleaded. "You do not want to kill me. I have information. I can help you!"

"Shut the fuck up." A battered Lt. Carver wheezed. "Let's finish this sorry son of a bitch."

"No, wait." Ramirez was usually the most ruthless of Foley's team, so to hear this from him was quite the surprise. "Hear him out. This guy is different, I've seen someone like him before."

"As have I" Foley added, pointing out the collage of tattoos that swarmed the man's neck and hands. "That's some pretty impressive ink there, soldier."

"Just like the guy in Arcadia." Dunn turned to the sniper. "You have a buddy go there recently, not make it back?"

"Maybe." The Russian shrugged. "Maybe not. So, if you are Americans, and you are not invading, who is it you are fighting alongside? The Loyalists?"

"We're the ones asking the questions around here, boy." Carver hissed. "Not you."

"You _are_ fighting with the Loyalists." The Russian continued in defiance. "Roman Klossovsky, he is maybe not so bad, if you believe what my boss has to say. The lesser of two evils perhaps."

"I said shut the fu-" The cogs inside Carver's head began to turn, and his rage started to subside. "Wait, what do you mean, your boss?"

The Russian gave a lupine smile before laughing grimly to himself "I want to speak to your commanding officer, if you would be so kind."

"I'll get on to Command." Foley told the team. "I get the feeling our objectives are about to change."


	30. The Long Way Down

"Team One, this is Team Two." The hurried and anxious voice of Marine Corporal Nick Hillson announced over the radio. "Be advised, you've got a shitload of hostiles converging on your location as I speak. I would suggest interrogating your guy someplace else."

"Solid copy Team Two." Foley answered. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"Damn it." Carver spat, before shooting a poisonous glare over at his prisoner "You call for backup? Are these guys friends of yours?"

"_It must be them."_ The Russian muttered to himself in his native language_. "They're here."_

"What are you saying?" Ramirez asked. "I think it's better all of us if you talk to us in English."

The Russian didn't answer to the Private, he instead approached the nearest balcony with an air of extreme caution, only very momentarily glancing down to give him those precious moments that allowed him to still see all he needed to in order to get an understanding of the scenario. In the square below four unmarked black Gazelle vans had pulled up, and now a large squad of commandos had stepped out and were busy reading their weapons and ordering each other about. All were dressed in distinctive blue urban tiger stripe-type camouflage fatigues, and wore black berets and heavy-duty riot vests.

"No, American." The cocksure Russian of before was gone; his arrogance replaced by a man scared half to death of what he had just seen. "OMON are most certainly not who you would call my friends."

The traps that lay within the building were not intended for the Americans at all, as contrary to their original beliefs the sniper was not aware of their presence in the city whatsoever. Instead, they were intended for these men in blue who had been tracking him for days, and now the Americans had cleared the path straight to their target.

OMON is the special purpose unit of the Russian police force, the _Militsiya_. Similar in theory, but a more unconventional force compared to the likes of SWAT, Britain's CO19 and Germany's GSG-9. OMON's discipline and control may be more questionable, but they make up for such foibles in skill, power and the efficiency of unstoppable ruthlessness. Few law enforcement agencies would pride themselves on the mantra of '_We know no mercy and do not ask for any'_, but OMON certainly do, not allowing themselves to be limited to the simple task of keeping of the peace but also partake in paramilitary actions, including the highly notorious brutality of the _zachistka _mopping-up cleansing operations in Chechnya.

Right now, with every passing second these men of no mercy were approaching on the team's very position. Whoever the sniper was, it was apparent that they were here for him, and apprehending the suspect was not on the agenda of OMON today whatsoever. Neutralization of the target was the name of the game here, and whether they were Loyalist or Ultranationalist was of little consequence, nor was the thought of whether their motive was to silence a whistle-blower or eliminate a threat to the area. They were here to kill this man, and the American team was just an obstacle between them and their objective that had to be destroyed. There was no choice but to repel these attackers.

"Team One, these assholes haven't figured out we're over here yet." Hillson informed. "We no longer have a visual on the hostiles, they're heading over the other side of your building. We won't be able to provide assistance unless we regroup, over."

"Negative, Team Two." Carver responded. "Do not engage, I repeat, do not engage. Head for extraction zone Delta before your cover is blown, we'll meet up with you there."

"Are you sure about that, sir?" Team Two's Corpsman, Nick McKaye, sounding more than a little concerned about his Lieutenant's decision making.

"Don't worry about it Sailor." Carver reassured. "We can handle ourselves. Now get the hell out of here before it's too late."

"Understood, sir. If you say so. Good luck."

The Russian sniper stood still, carefully monitoring every movement that the Americans were making. To him, these men were unquestionably the enemy, but unlike OMON, they were a foe that could ensure his survival. Therefore, he had no choice now but to assist them, in the same way that they would begrudgingly have to accept him as a temporary friend.

"You have an extraction point?" He asked. "Where is it? I know this city better than anyone, I can get you there twice as fast."

"Right…" Dunn looked back at his team. "But if you try anything funny, you know exactly what will happen to you."

"Of course I do." The Russian replied as he reached for his 9A91 rifle that lay on the floor, only picking it up once he received a nod of approval. "As long as you promise my safety, I will…assist."

"You know something we don't." Foley said coldly. "So yeah, it's not like we have either of us have any other option. Just try not to get yourself killed, alright?"

"_Konechno, ____you too__. ____We're going to have to take the stairs, the only thing you can jump to from the roof is your death__"_

"Very well." Carver said firmly. He could hear that the Russians had already breached the building, and had to keep the team focused, as they could appear any second. "I hope you're all ready."

"Damn right we are." Corporal Rick Janis, the only member of Carver's Marine squad in Team One, started to psych himself up.

The Corporal's words weren't just a display of overconfident gung-ho exuberance, however. This was something the whole team had been waiting, preparing, and anticipating for since the end of the defense of Virginia. Revenge for the events in America might not have been on the list of official objectives, but it was something the team was most certainly going to achieve to the very fullest that they could.

"Good to hear." Carver said. "The point is yours, Ramirez. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Yes sir."

As Ramirez pumped his shortened Remington 870 shotgun and headed his way down the stairway, the sound more accelerating diesel engines became audible outside. This could only mean that even more commandos were showing up, and the team would have to get down five floors and fight past the first squad as fast as they possibly could, or risk being completely overrun and any hope of escape would diminish entirely.

With the team in tow, Private Ramirez raced down the flight of steps, only to encounter the OMON pointman before he had even reached the final step to the fourth floor. Neither man had expected to see the other quite so early on, but Ramirez had the gift of quicker reactions, and being too close to fire his gun, improvised by headbutting the unfortunate commando before grabbing him by his tactical vest, and using his considerable strength, threw him over the railing, sending the man plummeting down the stairwell with an echoing futile scream, his body helplessly ricocheting off the handrails below like a rag doll before finally crashing into the ground with a splintering crack.

"Let's move." Foley growled. "On the third floor there's a second stairway, far side. We might just make it."

Ramirez and Dunn, who followed close behind, were forced to fight off two more OMON men on the stairway to reach the third floor. It was only once they were there that they realized that Foley had been far too over-optimistic in his judgment, as the Russians had already swarmed the entire room, opening fire immediately and causing both men to dart for cover back behind the doorway to avoid the eruption of bullets which thumped into the walls and sent clouds of concrete dust billowing in every direction.

"Flashbang out!" Ramirez yelled.

The Ranger waited the few seconds it took for the pyrotechnics to detonate before he and Dunn entered the room, shooting as they went. Their work had been made almost effortless by the emptiness of the room, save for the four main concrete support posts, so the luckless Russians that could not scramble to cover quickly enough were little more than fish in a barrel, stumbling around the room blinded, deafened and helpless. By the time the rest of the Americans entered, rifles blazing, those who were caught in the wake of the flash had already hit the floor dead.

Before the team had any further opportunity to advance, the air was filled with an ear-piercing static screech that reverberated across the room, the source of which being from the loudspeaker system attached to one of the police vehicles in the square.

"American soldiers, listen to me!" The officer behind the speaker system shouted. "We are here for the Russian terrorist that you have within your midst. You do not want to die for this man; he is a grave danger to the interests of both our nations. No more needless blood needs to be spilt today, but I warn you, we have seized a squad of your comrades, and they will be executed unless you meet our demands. I therefore offer you a trade that I am sure you will consider most fair. You give us this one man, and we will return you six of yours and you will be allowed to leave."

"Don't listen." The Russian sniper warned. "He is lying. You go out there, you die. Simple as that."

"You would say that." Foley muttered.

"I tell you what." Carver breathed as he took a glance out of the window overlooking the square. "He isn't lying about one thing."

Sure enough, the OMON troops had indeed intercepted and captured the entirety of Team Two, lining the men out in a row, on their knees and with their hands behind their back. Worst of all, each one of them had a commando standing behind them with an assault rifle pointed directly at the back of their head. Whether they had disobeyed orders to stay behind and aid the fight, or actually attempted to escape and still been caught in the process, was of no thought to Carver and his team. Right now the lives of their friends hanged in the very balance, and the clock was ticking. That conundrum was all that really mattered.

"So then, sir." Dunn said grimly. "What do we do now?"


	31. Exit Strategy

"I'm not sure we have many options left." Lieutenant Carver breathed. "But we may still be able to get out of here alive."

"No, you won't." The Russian said. "Not if you are naive enough to believe what these men tell you."

"I didn't say I did." Carver smirked. "Why should we believe what you have to say over them?"

"No, of course you don't have to." The sniper replied without a hint of emotion as he shrugged. "I wouldn't expect you too. However, for an attachment of the police, OMON is rarely in the mood to take prisoners when it is not an order, so the fact that General Greyenko has put a no-prisoners order out on all American Special Forces soldiers, no matter what the circumstances, is not a good sign. The only thing that keeps your comrades alive at present is the use of them as bait. Like I said, OMON will slaughter the lot of us the moment you step outside."

"What?" Foley blinked. "They are here for you, surely they want the information you have as well?"

"I hate to break it too you, but I really doubt it. There is a similar order out on anti-government troops, and every other threat to the fragile regime is treated the same. You and I, we may technically call ourselves enemies, but we are very much in the same boat when it comes to this predicament. Now, just this one time, I need you to trust me to help you."

Of all the weapons this man had stockpiled, he still had one last one to use, one final trick up his sleeve. Slung across his back was a Milkor MGL, a South African-designed weapon that highly resembled a larger version of the Armsel Striker shotgun that had found favor within the Russian military in recent years. The Milkor itself was not a shotgun, however. It was a launcher designed to fire 40mm high-explosive grenades or less deadly riot control ordnance semi-automatically from a revolver-style magazine. The Milkor was truly fearsome, and had been such a success with worldwide militaries that it had even become an official weapon of the United States Marine Corps. Today, however, it was the Russian who possessed it.

"I get one shot at this." He said, looking over from his sight at Carver. "But I might just be able to save your friends."

"I have no idea what you're planning." Carver replied. "But if it gives us a chance, what the hell. Do it."

"As you wish." The sniper moved his way towards the window. "You won't get another chance. Ready yourselves."

The commandos who surrounded the building in the undecorated, cheerless, single tone grey of the concrete square of the bloc were caught by surprise and had no time to react. Before they had any time to even open fire on the Russian or the men they had taken hostage, a single explosive round was fired from the MGL directly into the militsiya riot van furthest from the group, which promptly erupted into an impressive firecracker, sending the unfortunate OMON troops that had been standing around the vehicle flailing helplessly through the air. More importantly, it made a distraction for the guards who had previously had their fingers on the triggers of guns pointed at Team Two. With the seconds they had been gifted, Carver's team rose to the window as one entity and opened fire as one, laying down a hail of unrelenting fire from their raised position, dropping the enemy to the ground in almost perfect synchronization.

"Not bad, Ivan." Foley beamed, patting the man on the back. "Maybe you ain't so bad after all."

Down on the ground, Team Two responded with immediate action, scrambling to pick up the weapons from their fallen captors before opening fire on the commandos that surrounded them. They were now well back in the fight, but were heavily outnumbered and still required assistance.

"We better get down there." Corporal Dunn said as reloaded, before placing two packs of C4 high explosives into the center of the floor of the corridor. "I'm taking a short-cut. Get back!"

As the team moved to a safe distance, Dunn clicked the remote trigger for the explosives to detonate. After the boom of the explosion, the room was filled with a thick cloud of dust and debris, but Dunn was already heading down the hole in the floor he had created, followed closely by Private Ramirez. As they reached the second floor, both instantaneously opened fire to either side of the room, catching off-guard and killing the men who had just rushed the building.

"Nice work Private." Dunn said. "Let's move."

"Hooah." Ramirez replied.

As the team raced uncontested to the first floor, they were safe in the knowledge that there was nothing stopping them reaching Team Two. But now was not the time for complacency, a point that was proven to the men the moment they emerged from the double doors, only to be greeted by the sight of two-dozen Commandos who were still engaged in the frenzied battle with Team Two, and they didn't need any shots to be fired before they realized that Team One had joined the fray. Half the OMON troops slewed on the spot to open fire on them, causing the team to scatter for cover straight away.

Only Corporal Janis had not been as quick to react as the others. Before he could take a single step forward, let alone jump behind the nearest wall, rounds from at least three separate people hit him, causing his body to spasm uncontrollably as his torso erupted in a crimson cascade of blood. Janis dropped to his knees and collapsed to the pavement, dead before he hit the ground.

"Oh Christ." Carver gasped, knowing full well his friend and comrade had been killed, and there wasn't a single thing he could have done about it. "Man down! Come on; let's get some fire on these fuckers!

"Damn it!" Foley gritted his teeth. "Everyone on me, we have to move up!"

As the bullets still thundered endlessly around the small brick wall the Ranger Sergeant was using as cover, Foley picked his moment carefully and vaulted, followed closely by what was left of the team, firing as they went. Only the Russian stayed behind, waiting for the enemy troops who broke from cover to open fire on the Americans, only for him to pick them off with his grenade launcher. Once he was out of 40mm rounds, he reverted to his rifle and rejoined the others. Maybe, just maybe, they would get him out of here after all.

The fight was well and truly on now. The men of Team One stormed through the square, splitting into two groups and cutting a wide swath with their controlled bursts, leaving a trail of bodies as they went. As the firefight finally looked like it was going their way, they reached the position where Team Two had been hunkered down, only to find they had not been so successful. They had become completely surrounded, and only three remained alive, including McKaye and Hillson, and if Team One had arrived and outflanked the OMON commandos only a moment later they would probably not still be alive.

"Hillson!" Carver yelled to the Corporal. "Move it, we're leaving this hellhole!"

"Fuckin' A!" Hillson replied, turning to the Corpsman next to him. "You heard, Nick! Let's go!"

As what remained of both American squads regrouped together and sprinted for the extraction point where they could receive an evac in relativel safely, the men of OMON dispersed, completely disappearing into the shadows and gloom of the Soviet-era apartment complex. It didn't take a master military tactician to deduce that they would not be gone permanently, and when they returned, they would be back in far bigger numbers than before. This was the one chance carver's team had been given to escape.

"They are regrouping, watch for stragglers-" The Russian said, just before he was cut off by his point being proven the hard way, a bullet ripping through his left shoulder throwing him forwards with such force it was as if he had been hit by a car.

"Contact!" Ramirez yelled. "Single foot-mobile, center of the square!"

The lone enemy commando that had stayed behind had been given a single moment to fire, and he had taken it without hesitation. As Dunn and McKaye raced over to the injured Russian and helped him to his feet, the rest of the squad laid down covering fire, only to discover that the commando had already escaped to wherever the rest of his men had gotten to.

"God damn it." Foley growled as he lowered his rifle, the usually unflappable Sergeant starting to lose his cool. "This guy better not die on us. Not now."

"Well, we better double-time it then." Hospitalman McKaye warned. "Because if we don't, that's exactly what is going to happen."

* * *

SAS Trooper Bishop had spent the last hour of the day standing bolt upright outside of the main infirmary of the _Stennis_, staring blankly at the empty wall in front of him as he awaited further news on the condition of his squad-mates. This was something he seemed to be particularly good at, as even at the best of times the young soldier was mechanical in his single, unchanging tone of voice as well as his astonishing inability to show emotion in any way whatsoever, no matter what was happening around him, so standing like a statue for hours at a time was probably something he would find somewhat facile.

Today, however, Bishop was a different man to the usual, as while he may have done his best to hide the fact, he was distraught that his team leader and demolitions expert, two men he had only known for a short amount of time but had been the closest thing he had to calling friends at Hereford, had been seriously injured. While he knew something like this was inevitable, the emotional effect it had on him he could not prepare for. He was human, after all, much as he would hate to admit it.

"Hey there, Trooper." The voice of Archer stirred Bishop from his trance-like state. While Archer had been absent with the Task Force when Bishop joined the SAS, it was a welcome sight to see a fellow soldier from Credenhill.

"Oh, Archer, good to see you, sir." He replied. "You'll be pleased to hear that Leftenant Mercer's condition has improved substantially. You'll get the chance to talk with him later today, perhaps."

"Excellent news. What about Steyn?"

"Good news at last, a full recovery is to be expected. I guess later we'll find out the full facts on how long it will be before we see him back alongside us, but knowing him, it won't be too long."

"He'll want to fight from the moment he regains consciousness." Archer laughed. "Corporal Jake Steyn went to the edge of death twice just getting through the selection. One thing you have to understand about him is he always viewed the regiment with some kind of superhero status, as I'm sure most us did prior to joining, but with him that frame of mind still stuck with him even once he saw what the truth about life with us was."

"Yeah, that's right." Bishop gave a rare smile. "He felt invincible around us."

"Maybe, but he never acted like a complete cavalier. Steyn's a good soldier and you can't ask for any more than that. How about you, Trooper? How are you doing?"

"You know me, sir." Bishop said. "I just get on with it. I've been reassigned to Credenhill on the Colonel's orders, leaving tomorrow. I have no idea what they want with me there, but I guess this is where we part ways for now. It's been an real honor to have the opportunity to fight alongside you at last, sir."

"You too, soldier. The first time you saw me I'd just had three colors of shit kicked out of me by some of Her Majesty's finest secret service agents, so I'm glad I finally made a decent impression."

"Headquarters thought you had turned completely rogue." Bishop made a faint attempt at laughter at the thought of his words. "That explains the rough treatment you received. But you damn sure proved them otherwise. The team's doubts on assisting the Americans have been turned around too, and for that I must thank you."

"You're going somewhere with this, aren't you?" Archer crossed his arms, his tone slightly impatient. "Cut to the chase, I know you have a point to make."

"Well then." Bishop gave a nod and looked to either side to check that it was only he and Archer who were listening in. "As I am sure you are quite aware, I often act as a shadow to our Colonel Brickfield, which means I quite frequently, and of course accidentally, listen in on a few rather interesting conversations between him and his esteemed associates."

"Keep going."

"I know very well that our mutual friends, including our good friend Raptor, believe there are too many cracks appearing within the task force, especially when it comes to our dealings and friendship with the Loyalists. They believe we are close to becoming compromised. After all, the man who leads these men is Roman Klossovsky, a man who seems to have forged some kind of allegiance with Vladimir Makarov of all people."

"That's the one bit that doesn't add up for me." Archer mused. "They are supposed to be mortal enemies, with polar opposite political ideals. You'd think they'd just shoot each other on sight."

"Indeed" Bishop said. "I just don't know, but-"

"Well, I do."

Archer and Toad turned in shock to see the sight of Kamarov in the nearest doorway. Both had been convinced that nobody was listening in, and Kamarov himself wasn't exactly the type either of them would consider stealthy.

"Klossovsky and Makarov, they are indeed two very different people." Kamarov continued. "But they were allies once before, and I know, I was there. It was the early nineties, just before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Me and my team were sent to Lebanon."


	32. Perestroika

"Beirut." Kamarov said. "This, my friends, is where it all began. It was a simpler time, when there was no civil war, and there were no Loyalists and Ultranationalists. There were only Russians, and we were all equals, all brothers. As brothers we had to stand and protect our communist motherland as she took her dying breath, when every radical group on God's Earth wanted to contribute to the destabilization and unraveling of our nation. I was part of a team sent to stop one such group, one of the very worst. It was here that I first met Vladimir Makarov face to face."

* * *

**Beirut, Lebanon, December 1990.**

**Extremists take over the embassy of the ___Union of Soviet Socialist Republics._**

**Over twenty hostages taken, exact number not yet confirmed.**

**Status of Alpha Group assault: Total failure. Rescue team neutralized.**

**Green light to Spetsnaz Vympel Group incursion.**

The city of Beirut, Lebanon was, at one time, the beautiful jewel of the Mediterranean Sea, a glamorous, cosmopolitan maritime capital popular with travelers and culture-seekers from far and wide. Beneath the charming exterior, however, always lay a very different place, a troubled city that was never a stranger to the horrors of conflict, where the pages of its history book were heavily stained in the blood of the past, blood that would only continue to flow well into the present and the future.

To put it lightly, the twentieth century would not be kind to the city. After a promising and affluent new beginning that saw the city become capital of Lebanon following the country's independence from France, it evolved into the very financial heart of the Arab world. However, the city would soon become enveloped in more tensions, starting in 1958 with a political and religious crisis that required U.S military intervention, and culminating in a bloody civil war, taking the lives of hundreds of thousands and reducing beautiful Beirut to rubble and ash. Along the way, the Israeli Army invaded in 1982, in the interest of ousting the Palestine Liberation Organization's presence in the city, and a year later, the barracks of the United States Marines and French paratroopers were bombed on October 23, killing 241 U.S personnel and 58 French troops.

October 1990 finally saw the beginning of the end of Lebanon's brutal fifteen-year civil war, and while violence still fluctuated, it was a time of hope for the people of the city after so many years of trouble and strife. Insult to injury, then, that a small but particularly violent and well-organized group of Eastern European anti-government extremists named Eastern Sunrise would choose, out of all the cities in the world, this one in which to perform their raid upon the embassy of the USSR.

1990 was also the dawn of a brave new era for Russia, and marked the sunset for her Soviet Union. From Lenin's dream to Stalin's nightmare through to Khrushchev's crisis and beyond, the USSR's seventy-year experiment with communism was finally coming to an abrupt close. Mikhail Gorbachev and his policies of _perestroika_ and _glasnost_, which edged the Soviet Union closer and closer to capitalism with extreme economic reforms and hugely revised freedom of speech laws, kicked off the beginning of the final chapter.

For Eastern Sunrise, these policies were a sickening, unforgivable betrayal to the communist cause. While the group's name might not initially sound threatening, it veiled the true nature of the faction. That nature was one of a group of men that shrouded themselves in near-mythical secrecy, with no known structural hierarchy, operatives or allegiances. The one thing the group didn't keep a secret however, was the sheer inhumanity of their campaign of barbarity against the people and the interests of the Soviet Union.

It was this barbarity that Corporal Kamarov was observing first hand at he leapt with his squad out of the back of the army Ural truck, the first sight greeting his eyes being that of the bullet ridden and mutilated corpses of the Spetsnaz Alpha Group rescue team that Eastern Sunrise had dumped outside the embassy, being loaded unceremoniously into the truck right next to him. Not exactly the first thing anybody wants to see as they take their first steps into a new city, especially seeing that Kamarov's team were the ones destined to take up the place of these dead men.

At this point in time, Kamarov was an operative of Vympel Group, which alongside Alpha was the Special Forces attachment to the world-famous and highly feared _Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti_, or as it was better known in it's abbreviation form, the KGB, the Soviet's committee for state security and the precursor the SVR and FSB. In 1981, the world's most notorious espionage agency set up Vympel to set a new standard of excellence for a Spetsnaz unit, and was to contain only the best of the best soldiers selected from previously established special forces units with the KGB and GRU, the Russian Army Special Forces. Vympel did not take long to surpass even the highest of benchmarks, but being under the orders of the KGB, only a chosen few were aware at all of Vympel's existence, let alone the true nature of their highly covert actions.

As well as operations deep behind enemy lines, deep cover, sabotage and espionage, Vympel operatives were also masters of the art of counter-terrorism. If there was one thing that had become crystal clear in the mid to late twentieth century, it was that the world's most powerful nations had far more than other superpowers to make them watch their backs. The rise of terrorism had called for a new breed of modern warrior to do battle with the kind of enemy that does not follow the rules of engagement, does not wear a uniform and does not think like a soldier. More importantly, the kind of enemy that does not fear death, but in fact welcomes it.

Whereas the dedicated counter-terrorists over at Alpha tended follow the tried and tested methods, the men at Vympel were trained to do things in a more unorthodox fashion. Operatives were taught guerilla-style tactics and the construction and use of improvised explosive devices, a KGB believed that in order to defeat a terrorist, you must think, and even act, like a terrorist. But no training could quite have prepared Kamarov quite for what he saw outside of the embassy this December day.

Alpha group, the dedicated counter-terrorism unit, had planned on a similar raid to Operation Nimrod, the famous SAS rescue mission at London's Iran Embassy in 1980, a hugely successful raid that not only brought terrorism and the special forces answer to forefront via the world's TV news screens, but acted as a wake-up call to the militaries of the world to have their own answer for this new and terrifying style of warfare.

Alpha group had trained just as hard any other group for just such an occasion, and yet the terrorists had utterly decimated them. Only one man, a relative rookie of a Private, remained unaccounted for in the team, the rest had been annihilated in a matter of seconds. But where Alpha had somehow failed catastrophically, the KGB believed Vympel and their unique tactics would not.

Kamarov and his team did not look terrified in the slightest at the prospect of the fight, but that was to be expected. Even regular Soviet troops had been trained not to display emotion, no matter what the scenario. Here though, each man might have been a brutal, elite operative, but every single one of them was just as scared down to his bones as the last. If there was one thought of hope Kamarov kept with him now, it was that the second raid was being orchestrated by a man regarded by most as the one of the very best in the business, Vympel Major Roman Klossovsky. At that time, a proud communist, it would still be a few years yet before the prodigious young officer who, for his age, had risen through the ranks at an almost extravagant rate, would embrace the charms of the capitalist west in any way or form.

As Kamarov regrouped with his men, Major Klossovsky broke from a crowd of fellow officers to join and brief the team. A domineering presence in stature, the man who would be President wore an olive green uniform with royal blue patches of the KGB, with a medium-length black leather officer's jacket over the top. Most of the high-ranking men around him wore the same, but even then Klossovsky had something a little different about him aura wise, something that just gave the slightest hint that he was destined for something greater.

"Gentlemen, welcome to sunny Lebanon." He said, his voice full of confidence. "As you obviously aware, the situation at hand is most grave. Our comrades at Alpha group have suffered a terrible loss, and that is most unfortunate. But each and every one of us knows that the motherland, especially in these dark days, cannot and never will bow to the whim of international terrorism. We know little about this group of men, but we think we may have identified a possible ringleader, judging on eyewitness accounts."

Klossovsky took a small photograph out of his jacket and handed it to his men to pass around. The photograph itself was greyscale and not very clear, but the man it portrayed was visible enough to distinguish. He was certainly Slavic, with very pronounced cheekbones, short black hair and thick, aggressive eyebrows. In the picture he wore civilian clothing mixed with military webbing and carried an AK-47, but that was not the thing Kamarov first noticed. Despite the grain, it was perfectly obvious from the background terrain that this photograph had been taken during the Soviet's six-year war in Afghanistan. If that evidence was not convincing enough, then the piles of bodies surrounding him, each wearing Russian desert fatigues certainly showed the harrowing truth. It took a lot to chill Kamarov's blood, but the thought of this demon of a human being, who was willing to wage war against Russia no matter how many devils he sold his soul to in the process, was one of those things.

"We have almost no intelligence on this man whatsoever." Klossovsky continued. "We do not even know his name. Even whether he is Eastern Sunrise's true leader or not is a matter of speculation. But whoever this man is exactly is of no interest to me, what is of interest is that he is currently holding hostages within our own embassy and has murdered a team of our comrades. You shall refer to him as the HVT, and no matter what happens today, this 'man', and the bastards who carry out his disgusting orders must be wiped from the face of the earth, completely eliminated. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Yes sir!" The Vympel team chanted as one. "Understood, sir!"

"Very good, comrades." A smile started to spread across the Major's face. "Very good. In case the question of who your team leader is going to be today has crossed your mind, I can answer that for you easily. It shall be me."

Usually a high-ranking officer leading such an incursion would be considered very uncommon, not to mention an arrogant and cavalier act by the officer in question, but to Vympel's men this was a regular occurrence on operations. This was not hugely surprising seeing that the Major was no older than most of the team, and psychically was still hugely athletic as well as sharp of mind, his fast thinking tactician's mind were also things invaluable to any team in such a mission as this.

"We shall breach the of the embassy via the nearest building, which happens to be the Royal Hotel." Klossovsky explained. "Apparently they don't mind us destroying a few walls as long as we pay up afterwards. I shall brief you further once we are there. Now, let us move out."

The thought of Klossovsky as his team leader was a comfort to Kamarov's team, but it was still only a mild weight lifted off of their troubled minds. There was still Eastern Sunrise to contend with, as well as the objective of the safe rescue of the hostages, of which Alpha group had done nothing to help except add another. But the Soviet Union had a point to prove in front of the cameras of the world's media, and that point was that while the superpower may be ailing, but they were nobody's pushovers. It was to be Vympel's responsibility that his point was hammered home to those who would wish to be a torn in Mother Russia's side was she endured her toil.

Kamarov felt himself fighting for breath as his heart pounded fast with adrenaline and anticipation. Now was the time to truly prove himself.


	33. Hammer and Sickle

For Corporal Kamarov and his team, travelling the short walk to the Hotel Royal was not quite as simple as it had been described. Although Eastern Sunrise had allowed the Russian forces to retrieve the bodies of their fallen rescue team from the embassy, they had since started opening fire on anybody, civilian or military, who approached to close to the perimeter. The terrorists had also set up snipers on all overlooking windows, each hoping to get a lucky shot on anyone who might be attempting to sneak around the side or back of the building. The only blind zone was a six-foot high wall that only reached halfway to the hotel, meaning the final stretch of the journey was a mad dash for the entrance.

This was a journey that did not go quite to plan for Kamarov, the Corporal almost getting shot dead before he had the chance to even partake in the mission itself. Tripping to the ground just as he was halfway across the clearing, he gifted one of the many sharpshooters at the embassy a clear shot at a stationary target, one he was only too happy to take advantage of. Kamarov's first display of nothing more than dumb luck came when the sniper bizarrely missed the unmoving target, the round thumping harmlessly into the road in a cloud of dust and dirt. The second piece of luck came as Kamarov desperately hauled himself up as fast as humanly possible, still well in the knowledge that his fate was almost certainly sealed already. There was simply no chance for him to get moving again and reach safety before the tango zeroed in on him once more, and this time he would find his target.

Only fate, as it so often does, decided that events would take a different turn. This turn was in the form of whoever had been running behind Kamarov reaching out and grabbing him robustly by his webbing vest, yanking him to his feet and throwing the Corporal though the doorway, sending him colliding face first into the floor of the foyer but out of harm's way. Whoever had done this had displayed a considerable show of strength, as even in his youth Kamarov had always been very much the powerfully built, heavyset type. Whenever sheer old-fashioned brute force was a necessity for Vympel, Kamarov was the man to turn to. So it was certainly a surprise to him that just one man, even the toughest on the team, could pick him up single handedly and hurl him though the air quite so effortlessly. Not that he minded having his life saved.

"You're not getting out of this op that easily!" The voice of his rescuer said, stretching out his hand to help Kamarov back to his feet. "I'm not going to let you go like that. Especially seeing that you had the semtex."

Kamarov didn't even need to turn to look at the man; he had indentified exactly who he was from the moment he spoke. Captain Mikhail Monotov was Kamarov's usual team leader in Vympel Group, and more recently had become a member of his family, now being his brother-in-law. If Kamarov was the typical burly Russian bear of a man westerners often pictured in their minds, then Mikhail was more like the kind of man that would have been the focus of a Soviet propaganda poster.

A tall, muscular Olympian in stature, the Captain was also gifted with square-jawed good looks, his hair short and raven-black, and his eyes bright green, perspicacious and smart. While Mikhail himself had not made it onto a poster, he had at least made the front cover of _Pravda_ following a particularly daring raid he had led during the Russian's withdrawal from Afghanistan. A transport plane had been shot down by the Mujahedeen's Stinger missiles and crashed with an Army Colonel on board, and Monotov's intrepid team of sixteen men were sent in to retrieve those who had survived. It was little more than a suicide mission, but once they reached the wreckage, they took it upon themselves that every survivor, including the Colonel himself, made it out of there alive, even when it meant fighting off relentless and seemingly endless waves of hundreds of enemy militia. By a mixture of skill and miraculous luck, of which there was more of the latter, they succeeded.

Had the Captain performed such an act of heroics at the height of the reign of Communism, he would have been a hero to the people of the iron curtain. Instead, a populace weary and angry at the Soviet state met his bravery with little more than apathy and ignorance. It did, however, highly impress the KGB, and secured his selection into Vympel group.

"Ah, I should have known it was you." Kamarov said to him. "That was too close. Thank you."

Mikhail smiled, patting Kamarov on the back. "Not a problem, we are brothers. I know you would have done the same for me. After Afghanistan, I feared we had seen our last combat before the Soviet Union collapsed. I guess with the events here, we still have her honor to uphold. I just hope that whatever happens today, it is not the last battle we get the chance to fight for our country."

"I would most certainly hope not." Kamarov said strongly, ever the patriot. "You really think collapse is inevitable? You do not consider our actions today to be futile, do you?"

"No, no, of course not." Mikhail replied. "But even if it is, I will do my duty, whether it is my choice or not. I have no choice but to be loyal, after all I have experienced, all I have been though for Russia. You know as well as I that loyalty is a cruel mistress."

"Indeed." Kamarov gave a short laugh. "She most certainly is."

Any hopes Kamarov and Mikhail had for further conversation were dashed by Major Klossovsky pacing confidently into the room, a lit cigar held in one hand and silenced Skorpion-a compact sub-machine gun made famous by the Spetsnaz-in the other. It was mildly disconcerting that the officer carried a somewhat arrogant visage at the prospect of such a highly dangerous and important operation, but Kamarov dismissed the Major's swagger as the result of his relative youth, and remained comforted by the reputation that preceded the man.

"I saw that fuck-up, Corporal." The officer smirked. "But don't go dwelling too much about it. Seeing as I have heard only good things about you, we'll just say that was a one-off, shall we? I certainly hope you have thanked the Captain here for his putting his friend's life ahead of his own hopes of self-preservation."

"Yes, sir." Kamarov looked down at his feet and in his thoughts cursed hard at himself. In all of his eagerness to prove his worth, he had already done very well to achieve quite the opposite.

"Good." Klossovsky took a step back to address the rest of the Vympel team, which had crowded around him. "I do hope the rest of you also have any mistakes flushed out of your system, as you don't need me to remind you that the smallest slip-up inside the target building _will_ get all of us killed and _will _get all of the hostages executed. Personally, I don't really want that to happen, so perfection is demanded here, from each and every one of you. And you will deliver."

_"Yes, sir!"_

"Very well." Klossovsky said. "I need those explosives prepped and ready on the first and second floor walls, and we'll need to breach simultaneously. The embassy has a third floor inaccessible from here, so we'll have no choice but to fight our way up. Still, we are Vympel Group, so it should not be too much of a hassle. Gentlemen, let's get to work."

* * *

While the Major was to lead the team on the first floor, Kamarov and Mikhail were a part of the first team entrusted with entering though the second floor wall connecting to the embassy, and as breaching specialist, he was the one entrusted with attaching the custom-built charge. After fitting the device and taking a good few steps back with the detonator in his hands, Kamarov awaited the order to breach from Klossovsky, the movement and speech of the terrorists audible in the room ahead not exactly helping the general air of tension in the room.

"Victor One this is Victor Four." Kamarov informed with a mutter into his radio, and the surrounding team readied their sub-machine guns, knowing the attack was but moments away. "The charge is set, ready to breach."

"Roger that." Klossovsky's sharp tone immediately answered. "Do it!"

Kamarov pressed the trigger, and the explosives detonated, blowing an almost perfectly human-sized hole in the wall, which he and Mikhail raced through synchronously.

"Weapons free!" Mikhail instructed. "Go, go, go, go!"

The two men entered the embassy; the second floor room far bigger than either of them had anticipated and was split into two by a long line of desks. Immediately, Kamarov peeled off to the right of the cavernous office while Mikhail took the left flank, and Vympel team went about their work. One of the Eastern Sunrise terrorists had been caught unaware, busy watching the window and had been looking for any further movement in the parking lot below. Before he even had a chance to spin around to face his opponent, two short bursts from Kamarov's Skorpion brought him down. The Tango next to him had been quicker to react to the attack; raising his American-made ArmaLite AR-15 and opening fire wildly at Kamarov, causing the Corporal to dive for cover. The operative behind Kamarov soon dealt with the danger, calmly double tapping the trigger of his Skorpion and hitting the target directly in the mouth.

"Contact down!" The Vympel man confirmed. "Pick it up, Keep moving forward!"

Kamarov did exactly as he was told and rose to his feet, firing at two more of Eastern Sunrise's men who stormed out of the side room, both roaring a war-cry as they did so but receiving only two expertly-aimed shots for their efforts, and crumpled like paper figurines to the floor. Sweeping forward, the team made their way through the floor, and it soon became more than a little clear that the structure was a lot vaster in length than it was in height than it. Each room resistance was met from little more than four contacts on either side, hardly an overwhelming force for such well-trained soldiers. As he cut down the enemies in the final room before the stairway, Kamarov gave a quick glance to his left to see Mikhail and his followers had dealt with all hostiles with similar relentless efficiency.

"Clear left!" One operative shouted.

"Clear right!" Another informed,

"Victor Two, give me a sit-rep." The hurried voice of one of Klossovsky's men ordered.

"Victor One, this is Victor Two." Mikhail notified as the last terrorist fell dead to the floor. "Section-Two-Alpha is clear. All targets have been neutralized, but there is no sign of hostages or the High Value Target. What's the situation down there? Over."

"Much the same thing here Victor Two." The operative answered. "Looks like they are saving the best till last. Good luck with the third floor, out."

Even the war hero Mikhail's breathing started to rapidly accelerate at the prospect of what horrors lay ahead for the team on the third floor of this building. The men who had taken over this embassy had systematically butchered a team of expert counter-terrorists from Alpha Group, and yet here there had been so few of them, they had shown little ferocity and had been dispatched in only a matter of seconds. Granted, Vympel were very skilled, but Alpha Group themselves would have had hardly broken sweat with their tactics in the exactly same situation. They why had things gone so disastrously wrong? Worst of all, this wasn't the only thing that didn't add up in Mikhail Monotov's mind.

"Look at these guys." He said as he rolled over one of the bodies with his boot. "They sure don't look like regular terrorists to me."

In the frenzy of the battle, Kamarov hadn't even given a second thought to the psychical appearance of the men he was fighting against. But now as he looked down at the body of one of the men he had killed, he did notice. The men of Eastern Sunrise carried various heavily customized and almost factory fresh American rifles, and every single one of them was dressed the same, each to the hilt in American M81 camouflage fatigues and state-of the art body armor, helmets and webbing. One thing was for sure; they certainly did not look anything like terrorists. They looked like soldiers.

American soldiers.

"Oh my god." Kamarov took a sharp breath, finding it hard to speak with such a sensation of a lump in his throat. "What the…what the fuck is going on here?"

"How I wish I knew." Mikhail shook his head, perplexed. "I guess we shall discover once we reach the delights of the third floor."

"Let's not waste any time, then." Kamarov said quickly.

"Indeed." Mikhail took a moment to glance up at the stairway, and then looked back at one of his team. "Private Yazanov, take point and get a flashbang up there. We can skill give these sons-of-bitches a surprise or two."

"Yes sir." The Private responded in a surprisingly confident tone. "It'll be my pleasure."

"I've got your back. Let's go."

As he threw his grenade and darted his way up to the third floor, Yazanov did exactly as he had been instructed, and exactly in the way he had trained countless times at the counter-terrorism training facility back in his home country. But no advice, and no training could have possible prepared him, or the rest of the team for that matter, for what awaited them.

While about three hostile combatants in total had been stunned by Yazanov 's flashbang, all that the explosion had done was alert the rest to the incoming attack. The Private appeared at the landing, and as he did the entirely of the floor exploded into a firestorm, a colossal eruption of inescapable gunfire. Every possible area of cover was held down by at least five terrorists, each carrying an assault rifle that rattled off countless rounds. Each and every one of these rounds ripped apart their unfortunate still-stunned comrades that they considered collateral, before continuing into Private Yazanov and the wall surrounding him. Before he had a chance to open fire or even scream with pain, the soldier's body twisted violently as so many rounds peppered him with lead that he had practically been dismembered by the time what was left of his bloody corpse slumped down into the stairway.

"Fuck!" Mikhail gave a gasp as he clasped his hand over his mouth. As a Russian Special Forces officer, he had been no stranger to the grim business of sending men under his command to their untimely deaths, but even to him this sight was sickeningly horrific. "Man down. There's nothing we can do for him."

"Oh my god." One of the Vympel officers breathed, taking a few steps back in shock. "I thought you had his back?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Mikhail spat, trying his hardest to regain any composure. Now was not the best time to lose it.

"Alight, alright." Kamarov said, his voice attempting to calm the Captain. "But what the hell are we supposed to do now? We're pinned down, and I don't want to just wait here to die."

"Agreed!" Mikhail answered, his voice guttural as he pulled the pins from two CS tear gas grenades attached to his vest, and tossing them up the stairs, before looking back at the rest of the men. "Screw it, we move. On me! All or nothing!"

Mikhail's team, with Klossovsky's following not so far behind, stormed without pause through the beautifully decorative corridors, boots thundering against the ornate marble floor and letting rip with their machine guns. The terrorists that attempted to fight back the pain from the gas grenades only stumbled blindly into the line of fire, and even those who had been unaffected soon met a similar fate. The Vympel men once again broke off into two groups, punching though and clearing each office room one by one, nailing each and every hostile that dared to stand in the way of a Soviet with a true reason for vengeance.

As they reached the end of the corridor, only a few more enemies stood between them and the panic room. Kamarov had a newfound confidence, and a newfound belief that victory was at hand. Only once again, it was thoughts like this that would distract him to the point where he was to be caught off guard.

"Kamarov, contact to your right!" Major Klossovsky called from behind. "I can't get a shot."

Before the Corporal had the opportunity to swing to fire at the Tango the Major had called out, the Eastern Sunrise militant, who was burly in frame even compared to the likes of Kamarov, shot out from behind a tall bookcase, grabbing Kamarov tightly around his neck with one hand and proficiently disarming him with the other. Seeing what was unfolding, Klossovsky raced into the room to assist, but was unable to get a bead on the attacker without the risk of shooting Kamarov in the process as the two far bigger men scrambled, each trying to melee the other to the floor. Finally, the Eastern Sunrise man gained the advantage, gripping the back of Kamarov's collar and ramming his head into the corner of the nearest table.

With a crack of bone, Kamarov's nose shattered, his blood splattering across the face of the table to a beast-like roar of extreme pain from the Corporal. As the extremist dropped Kamarov to the floor and drew his knife to finish him, Major Klossovsky knew that he had his fraction of a second, his window to strike, and an opportunity that should never, ever be given to any trained killer. With his target oblivious to his presence, back facing to him and focused only on Kamarov, the Major thought though his inventory, deciding against his firearms, considering them still too risky, and instead opting for a weapon that perhaps more was unconventional than a knife, but in the hands of such a enthusiast of bladed weapons, was perfect.

Along with the Skorpion, the Kalashnikov and the spring-operated ballistic knife, Spetsnaz soldiers have one other piece of signature equipment that has become synonymous with their name. Each operative carries a small, razor sharp hand shovel, and while it is mainly used as an entrenching tool, can also act as a truly devastating weapon when required. This wasn't discovered by accident; the Spetsnaz designed the shovel to be perfectly balanced for throwing and use at close quarters.

Silently, Klossovsky removed the shovel from sheath at the rear of his belt, and one motion, pounced wolf-like at the unsuspecting terrorist right as the he went right in for the kill on his own prey. With his free arm, Klossovsky seized his target by the shoulder, pushing him back hard against the wall and twisting him around to get a good look into the man's eyes as they went wide in terror. With his other arm he swung the blade of the shovel into the side of the tango's neck with all the strength he could muster, resulting in a grotesque, spurting torrent of crimson. The chokes and gurgles lasted but a few seconds, and then Klossovsky allowed the body to drop, the shovel still heavily embedded.

"Jesus Christ." Kamarov said, jumping to his feet. "I thought I was gone there for sure. I made my second mistake, Major. I'm-"

"Don't mention it, Corporal." Klossovsky kneeled down to retrieve his shovel. "I'd been waiting all day to do that. Are you all right? You certainly don't look it."

"I've had worse than a broken nose." Kamarov replied with a shrug. "I'm good to go."

"Good man."

"Victor One, this is Victor Two, we are clear!" the voice of Mikhail bellowed over the radio. "Still no sign of the hostages or the HVT though, sir!"

"Affirmative, Victor Two, they must be in the panic room." Klossovsky answered. "They must have breached it. There's no time to waste, let's move."

"You ready, Corporal?" Klossovsky asked, looking back at Kamarov.

"After what just happened." Kamarov stuttered, pausing to take it all in. "I think I'm ready for just about anything."


	34. Evil Empire

The single surviving Alpha Group Private didn't have the slightest idea as to why the men from Eastern Sunrise had decided to keep him alive as a hostage, but it was of no consequence to him now. He instinctively hit the floor as the armored doors of the panic room burst open, engulfing the inhabitants with a tremendous shockwave. What followed was a brief outburst of utter chaos as the atmosphere exploded, and all the Private could do about it was cover his ears and pray that he would not be on the receiving end of a stray bullet or be executed in a crazed act of desperation from one of the terrorists.

The screams, shouts and thunderous gunfire that enveloped the confines of the small and claustrophobic room seemed so heightened and prolonged that when the onslaught finally ended with the immediacy of the flick of a switch, the Private could only assume that he to had met the same grisly fate as the rest of his team.

"It's over, soldier." The voice of his rescuer broke the eerie silence, most fortunately proving his assumption wrong. "Here, give me your hand."

The Private opened his eyes and looked up at the man, a KGB Major, with one very bloodied uniform, who helped him up to his feet, before the Private finally took one long sigh of relief. He was alive, and the men who had slaughtered his friends had comrades had been slain; a deal he was more than happy with.

"You alright?" The Major asked as he helped the Private up to his feet.

"Yes sir." The young soldier looked up and answered.

"Outstanding." The Major said with a smile. "You are Private Vladimir Makarov are you not?"

"Yes sir, of the Spetsnaz Alpha Group." Makarov struggled with his words, but was immensely proud of them. "I am at your service, Major Klossovsky."

"Ah, so you know my name already." Klossovsky looked back at a very fatigued looking Kamarov, who up until that point had been busy struggling to catch his breath. "Corporal, get our comrade a rifle."

"Right away, Major." Kamarov nodded.

The Vympel Corporal walked up to the pile of corpses, who wore the uniforms of both sides but thankfully none of the hostages, and picked out one of the few Soviet-built rifles that lay there in the form of an undamaged Kalashnikov. Upon magazine inspection, the rifle was revealed to not have fired one single shot in the foray. Satisfied, Kamarov threw the weapon over to Makarov, who caught it in mid air, his reflexes working perfectly despite his jangled nerves.

"Thank you." Makarov said, bowing his head and in doing so noticing the golden dagger and parachute insignia of Kamarov's regiment embroidered on his sleeve patch.

"You. You are Vympel?"

"Apparently." Mikhail answered Kamarov's question for him, before he even had the chance to open his mouth. "But that is of no matter to you, my friend. What matters is that you and the rest of the hostages, are safe and well."

"Indeed." Klossovsky added. "The Captain is right. Monotov, are all of the hostages accounted for?"

"Yes sir." Mikhail responded. "No civilian casualties to report. Little cuts, bruises and a whole lot of psychological damage, but nothing more serious than that."

"Superb." The officer's voice quickly changed from an air of pleasure to that of concern. "But what of your own men?"

This question from the Major was one that caught Mikhail unawares, causing him to take a step back in bemusement. In his whole service as an officer of the Soviet Union, he had never before been queried of losses to his team with such a genuinely worried tone by his commanding officer. Officers do not see other ranks, and the deaths of those below them were more petty inconveniencies than tragedies and sacrifices, but Klossovsky seemed different. To his enemies, he was brutal to the point of savagery, but he did seem to genuinely care for the fate of those that he was responsible for leading into battle.

"We've lost five, sir." Mikhail said, without showing his emotion.

"Regrettable." Klossovsky replied, solemnly and quietly. "But they did a great deed, helping us prove a point today. A point made directly to these new and clandestine enemies of ours."

Klossovsky stopped for a moment and took a few strides to the front of the room in order to address the remains of his team, clearly aware that even his first words had already commanded their rapt attention.

"You can throw out the rulebook of war and make the civilian world your battlefield.' He said. "You can forge yourself an army without a country or a flag, and spread anarchy, chaos and terror to those who do not deserve it with acts of cowardice and evil. But we will always be here. Here to restore order, here to protect the innocent and most importantly, here to display our own brand of justice to those who do not believe in it."

"Ura!" Kamarov growled with a defiant fist of approval in the air.

"I'm glad you agree with me, my comrade. Our Soviet Union may be weakened but it will not be overcome, not now, not ever. Now, let's get these good people to safety."

* * *

As dusk befell the city of Beirut, local paramedics had arrived and took the wounded and traumatized away to hospital. Klossovsky and the men under his command took a moment for respite, leaning on the wall of the embassy for a quick cigarette break.

"Are you sure you don't want to go with them?" Mikhail asked solicitously, waving in the general direction of the horde of Lebanese ambulances. "You look in a pretty bad way, brother."

"Rather me than you." Kamarov chuckled. "It's not like they ruined a masterpiece when they broke my nose. My face was never destined for the front pages, unlike your good self."

"Oh shit, not that old chestnut." Mikhail groaned. "I thought we agreed to not speak of that again. You know full well-"

"I don't know why you take displeasure in it." Kamarov cut in with a smile. "Pravda's photograph was splendid. I bet you regretted getting married after all those letters-"

"Enough!" Mikhail snapped. "The only reason I'd regret getting married is that I got you as my little bastard brother in law!"

Kamarov looked down at his feet and chuckled to himself, well in the knowledge that very few men could get Mikhail's back up quite like him. Fortunately, the Captain was a man of good humor, and it took only a few moments for him to join in with the laughter.

"Oh, I thought I recognized you, sir." Private Makarov had been looking in the opposite direction but listening in on the two men's conversation the entire time. "I thought you looked like Captain Mikhail Monotov but I didn't think it was actually you. I did read about your exploits in the paper, and I must say it is an honor to get the chance to meet you in person."

"Why, thank you, Private." Mikhail said. "Shame it wasn't under better circumstances."

"Yes, indeed." Klossovsky took a moment away from his cigar. "Captain Monotov's reputation of bravery does precede him. Our very own celebrity, if you will, and-"

"Klossovsky!" A mustachioed Russian Colonel, who looked the very image of a Soviet Officer that had failed to escape the Second World War era, bellowed as he strode across the parking lot. "A word with you and your men if I may!"

Klossovsky and the team stood and saluted. "Why, of course sir!"

"Good man, Major, good man." The officer paused in order to properly compose himself before speaking any further. "I just thought I would congratulate you and your men on an excellent day's work. Sadly our great nation has little uplifting news to write about these days, but this is finally a good day to add to our diaries."

"Just doing our job, sir." Klossovsky bowed. "But thank you."

"You are one of the few." The Colonel muttered. "Too few patriots today."

The object of the Colonel's attention was quite quickly diverted to that of four Russian-made UAZ jeeps that had noisily arrived at the perimeter, and the occupants within, which were now busy engaging in what appeared to be a very heated argument with a guard, judging by the man's rather over-the-top gesticulating at the vehicles.

"Good God!" He exclaimed. "What are those damned clowns playing at?"

"Beats me, Colonel." Klossovsky said, shaking his head. "But I can assure you they are no men of mine."

"Well then, Major. I think you'd better show-"

The Officer was abruptly and shockingly interrupted as the driver of the leading UAZ produced a pistol and promptly shot the guard in the head at point blank range. Before the body had even hit the floor, the jeep's front passenger, who was dressed in a regular Soviet soldier's uniform, leapt out and aimed his scoped sniper rifle, a semi-automatic variant of America's ubiquitous M14 known as the M21 SWS, at the first target he could see. The target just so happened to be the Colonel, and one squeeze of the trigger later the Officer fell to the floor before neither he nor anyone around him had the chance to move an inch.

"Holy shit!" Klossovsky yelped as he jumped back, eyes wide and skin pale in horror and stupefaction, a look that was mirrored by all of those around him as they raced for cover and weapons.

"God damn it." Mikhail breathed. "The Colonel's dead."

"Return fire!" The Major ordered. "Looks like Eastern Sunrise have returned for seconds!"

At this moment Private Makarov was hugely thankful for the assault rifle that had been put in his hands, and now he had the chance to prove himself to those who had rescued him by immediately returning the favor. In his short military career it had not taken very long for the young Vladimir Makarov to be recommended and accepted into the elite Alpha Group, partly for his honor and trenchant patriotism, but mostly for his reputation as a crack shot, a reputation he now had the perfect opportunity to uphold. In his hands was an unscoped AK-47, and in his undoubtedly skilled adversary's a superior weapon.

Both aimed at each other as Makarov broke from his cover, but it was the extremist that fired first. The bullet seared past the head of the Private, missing him by inches and striking the brick wall behind him. Powder and dust covered Makarov, but he already had his target, and his aim remained still, unwavering and unblinking. Then he fired. A short pause ensued before a pink cloud burst from the back of his enemy, and the sniper slumped to the pavement.

"Nice shot, Private!" Mikhail complemented. "Fucking excellent!"

"Keep moving forward!" Klossovsky was already on the move, leading the charge and waving for the rest to follow suite. "Come on, let's finish these bastards off!"

The rest of the Eastern Sunrise men from the jeeps decamped from their vehicles with their weapons at the ready, and were at once engaged by Klossovsky's team. The extremists put up a good fight, but were soon overwhelmed by the sheer skill and numbers of the Russians. As the last enemy fell down dead, Kamarov knew that it would not be the last of them. The Corporal surveyed the sprawling streets, a chill rising at the thought of the endless hiding places and ambush opportunities the terrorists could use to their advantage. Every nook and cranny out there was a deathtrap.

"We're not done yet." Klossovsky said as he too scanned the cityscape. "There will be more of them."

"What the hell is going on here?" Kamarov asked as he observed the fatigues of the slain extremists. "First they wear the colors of the Americans, now they wear our uniforms?"

"We can't be sure." Klossovsky answered. "But Gentlemen, I do believe we may have gatecrashed a little false flag operation."

"Oh great." Kamarov said under his breath as the rest of the men let out a collective groan. "Just great."

"False flag?" Private Makarov's bizarre eyes were wide and frightened. "Why would anyone even…I mean…I don't even want to think about those consequences should they-."

"There are some who would rather not see this war go out with a whimper, Private." Klossovsky said. "There are many who do not want Russia to be seen as the losers, but some believe that must be averted no matter what the cost is. Even if that cost is nuclear. Eastern Sunrise, they are such people."

"But obviously they have failed, why are they still attacking us?"

"Because, Soldier, the psychopaths who do their dirty work just love the little drug known as anarchy." Klossovsky smirked. "At the end of the day, they don't really mind how they get their fix, just so long as blood is spilt."

As predicted, the anarchy was not over yet. A fleet of various military vehicles had already started to converge on the scene, and not a single one looked as if it was there to assist. Soon enough, the entire embassy was completely surrounded and the sound of sporadic automatic gunfire began to rise up and echo through the streets. It was more than a little apparent that the men were now completely surrounded.

"Shit! Fall Back!" Klossovsky yelled. "Fall back!"

"Where the hell to?" Mikhail yelled in return.

"The embassy! Move it!"

The team ran hard back to the entrance of the compound as the hordes of extremists swarmed in around, killing anybody, military or civilian, that strayed into the crosshairs of their rifles. Every man on the team knew they could not do a single thing for these people without dying themselves in the process, and after the day these men had just had, little more than self-preservation was on their minds. It ended up a close call, but as the last man leapt through the doors, they had beaten Eastern Sunrise to the embassy. Holding it, now that would a completely different matter.

"There's a helipad on the roof!" Makarov informed. "That's our way out of here!"

"Good call." Mikhail said as he looked to Klossovsky, who gave an approving nod. "If we can even get an evac."

The Captain then turned to Corporal Kamarov who had been busy setting up proximity mines as well as using whatever he could find lying about as a rudimentary barricade. It didn't take a genius to know that it only hold for a few moments, and the terrorists would find another way in before that, but it was better than nothing.

"Think that will keep them out, Corporal?" Mikhail queried.

"Not at all, Captain." Kamarov sighed, dropping his shoulders in defeat. "I just wanted to really fucking piss 'em off a bit before they got in and killed me."

"I like the pissing them off part of the plan." Mikhail smiled an uneasy smile. "I'd prefer a different ending though. We should get moving, I'll take point, boys."

Mikhail led the way quickly but cautiously though the hallways, with Makarov following as his shadow. This was not a place any of them had wanted to ever return to, as with the onset of the attack the emergency services had fled, leaving behind the bullet-ridden bodies of the terrorists, the Alpha Group and he fallen Vympel men. It was a nightmarish place, and one none of them wanted to become their final resting place.

As Mikhail stepped over the carpet of dead, even the Captain, famous for his heroism, became unnerved and sickened at the sheer amount of dull, lifeless eyes that stared up at him from the floor. He had seen too many a sight like it in Afghanistan, but in a building such as this it was even more surreal, even more jarring and even more hellish. Then, as he prepared to step over one more Eastern Sunrise militia, the eyes of the man he thought dead suddenly blinked.

The Captain immediately froze on the spot, something he in any other circumstance would never do and would even go as far as chastise any man under his command for doing the same. Every part of him told his mind to fire his Skorpion and finish off the terrorist, and yet his body simply seized in place, unable to move a muscle.

The terrorist, while badly injured, quite literally jumped at the chance he was gifted. Mustering the entirety of his sapping strength he leapt to his feet, and slashed the Vympel Captain upwards diagonally across his face with a huge bowie-style knife. Mikhail dropped to his knees and wailed, clutching his face in his hands as blood poured out between the gaps in his fingers. The Eastern Sunrise man smiled darkly at his pitiful victim, and cared not about finishing the poor Captain off. Instead, in his final moments he had his mind set on doing as much damage as possible to the rest of the team.

Makarov was next in line, and already had his rifle raised and sights trained on his sneering, growling target, blood pouring from the Tango's mouth as well as his blade. The Private grimaced at the sight of the rabid dog of a man, and in a way felt a modicum of pity for him as he pressed the trigger to put the savage out of his misery with a quick, clean headshot.

Only this time nothing happened. In this most rare occurrence, the Alpha Group man's trusty Skorpion had jammed, sparking another fowl grin from his enemy who pounced on the Soldier as he went for his sidearm, grabbing Makarov in a lock with surprising strength and holding the knife to his neck. The terrorist had changed his plan. Now he was going to bargain his way out.

"Right!" The terrorist yelled, his harsh accent clearly that of a Russian in spite of the United States Army uniform he wore. "Now you all listen to me! I wan-"

Klossovsky didn't listen in the slightest. He too had his sights trained on the man already, and all he needed now was there perfect moment just as the terrorist looked him directly in the eyes. The Major fired, and in his case the sub-machine gun worked perfectly. With Makarov's squirming, the shot had to be absolutely spot-on, and it was, hitting the target directly between the eyes, and the enemy fell where he stood, his knife land blade-down right next to Makarov's boot.

Makarov gasped, stumbling forwards in delirium. "Oh my god." He murmured, starting to compose himself. "That was unexpected. Once again you have my deepest thanks, Major."

"Not a problem, Private." Klossovsky replied, swiveling his gaze to the injured Mikhail, who was still wailing in pain and struggling to get to his feet. The knife had caused a considerably deep wound, but in missing the eyes by only millimeters the Captain had been exceptionally lucky. Mikhail's face may not be as photogenic in future, but at least he would live to fight another day and with his eyesight intact.

"Captain!" Kamarov yelled as he and Klossovsky grabbed him by both arms and assisted him with regaining his balance. "You're going to be alright."

"Aright? How can I be all right when I can't see! I'm fucking blind!"

"Come on, Captain." Major Klossovsky said. "You haven't been blinded, it's just a lot of blood. Once we're out of here, you'll be just fine, just as the Corporal says."

"Oh great." The Major's words did little to comfort Mikhail. "Where the hell's my Skorpion? I can still fight!"

"We've got to keep moving." Klossovsky insisted, passing the sub-machine gun to the Captain. "Those bastards will be here any moment now. We've been seriously lucky that they haven't done so already."

Once the roof had been reached, the shocking grimness of the scenario was finally unveiled. The streets had descended into full-blown chaos, and any allied forces that were still in the square below had surely been slaughtered. All the group could hope for was that the extremists had made the end as painless as for them as possible, but that was unlikely. A lot of good men were dead, and it didn't look like anything resembling backup was on the way any time soon. The four who stood atop the embassy were possibly all that was left; now the only method of escape was through a helicopter evacuation. As Kamarov and Makarov used what semtex they had setting up another trap for those who got inside, they knew time was running out.

"Command, this is Major Klossovsky of Vympel Group!" Klossovsky bellowed into his radio. "We have been overrun at the embassy, and are suffering heavy losses! We need a pickup, ASAP!"

There was no reply. Not even the usual fuzz of static.

"Command, do you read me?"

No reply.

"_COMMAND! This-"_

"Nothing's going to come, Major." The quiet voice of the radio operator responded. "We've used up our helicopters getting as many as we possibly could out of there. Err…the Lebanese Army will be on hand in time, but there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry, Comrade."

"Understood. Over." Klossovsky said, hanging his head and letting out a long sigh. Eventually, the young Officer's short temperament got the better of his judgment.

"Those motherfuckers!" He spat. "I should have known."

To the armed forces of most powerful countries, the act of leaving men behind, no matter what their rank or physical condition, is one of the most standard unacceptable and impermissible decisions one could possibly take on the battlefield. Klossovsky, however, knew full well that this situation was a possibility. It had been such a frequent occurrence in Afghanistan that abandoned Russian soldiers had often gone rogue and turned their allegiance in a desperate attempt to survive, and desertion was commonplace. There would be no such wrangling in this instance, however. It was simply a case of one last blaze of glory, sending as many enemies of the Soviet Union to the depth of hell before your ultimate sacrifice was finally called upon.

In the floors below, the thunderous stamping of boots became louder and louder, like a relentless pounding of incoming war drums. Eastern Sunrise had finally got in, and it would only be a matter of seconds before they figured out the group's location. A few small explosions echoed and rumbled as the proximity mines played their part, but it did little to slow the advance. As Klossovsky and Mikhail raised their weapons at the doorway to the roof, Makarov and Kamarov had their detonators at the ready. The timing had to be nothing less than perfection. They knew that.

It did not take long for the first men to appear at the doorway. Before anybody on either side had the chance to fire, the semtex was detonated, reducing the four leading the enemy charge to little more than a fine powder of red dust, and damaging the steel stairway which lead to the roof to the point of collapse with a groan of twisted metal.

While the rest looked on, Kamarov switched the firing selector of his Skorpion to fully automatic and emptied his clip down the stairwell, ending the misery of those who had attempted to reach the roof and somehow survived the explosion only to end up falling three floors and onto the razor-sharp shards of the remains of the splintered steel staircase. His actions may have appeared barbaric, but in reality the Corporal had been showing undeserved mercy.

"Any plans now, Major?" he asked, looking back at Klossovsky. "There's no way out of here now."

Before Klossovsky had the change to answer, two helicopters thundered overhead and started to circle around the embassy. The medium-sized aircraft were the British Army Air Corps Westland Lynx, a chopper than on appearance looked like a cross between the UH-60 Black Hawk and the UH-1N Twin Huey and at one time held the record as the fastest helicopter in the world.

What the British had been doing in the city was unclear, and Klossovsky, Mikhail and Makarov winced at the thought of rescue coming from those they still considered enemies to the Soviet Union. Kamarov however, was just delighted that rescue was a possibility at all, and the Corporal quickly lit a flare, waving it in plain sight of the aircraft. Much as Klossovsky's acute patriotism wished to dissuade him from doing so, he knew the Corporal was doing the right thing.

As the door gunner of the lead helicopter opened up with his machine-gun on the terrorists that still surrounded and overran the embassy and nearby hotel, it looked as if victory was somehow to be clawed from the jaws of defeat. This became increasingly more apparent when in the surrounding streets the Lebanese Army had finally mobilized en-masse, and had shown up in jeeps and American-made armored vehicles, picking off those that the Lynx had not.

As the first continued the attack, second Westland broke off and hovered over the roof, the skids of the chopper only inches above the tiles and the booming rotors kicking up dust and debris into the Russian's faces. Satisfied that the Lynx was in prosecution, the team leader of the British Special Air Service leapt down to join them. Compared to the Soviets, with their faded, tatty khaki fatigues and aging sixties weaponry, the SAS man looked positively futuristic with his jet-black uniform, state of the art equipment and high-tech East German firearms.

"Well, well." The man said, with a strong Scottish accent. "Gentlemen, this is an unexpected delight. What's this, Ivan needing our help?"

"Don't start, please" Klossovsky knew full well that the Brit would find the pasting the Russians had received highly amusing, and would take every possible opportunity to undermine the Communist. Still, the Major struggled to hold back his anger. "We are grateful for your assistance, sir. I am Major Roman Klossovsky of the Soviet Union's Vympel Group."

"Lovely to meet you, mate." The Scot replied sarcastically. "Let's not waste time with details, you don't need to know who I am, son. Do you want a ticket out of here or not?"

Klossovsky nodded, forced to show humility. "Yes."

"Right then." The team leader turned to another black-clad soldier seated within the Lynx, faceless behind a gas mask. "Move up, Trooper! We're giving our friends here a ride out of here."

"Yes sir." The Trooper answered, his gruff London accent more than a little reluctant. "If you say so."

"Get on, Russkies, and make it sharpish. The meter's running." The SAS man said. "You do realise we're doing you lot a big fuckin' favor, right?"

"Of course sir." Kamarov answered.

As Private Makarov stepped on board the helicopter to join the rest, the SAS team leader signaled for the pilot to get the hell out of there, and the fire and the fury of the remains of Beirut's Russian embassy was left to smolder as the Lebanese stayed behind to eradicate any further persistence from Eastern Sunrise.

The fates of the four Russians would take them each on very different paths. A year later, Vympel Group would help to assist their KGB allies in a coup d'état attempt against President Gorbachev and his anti-communist reforms and restructures. Mikhail Monotov, who at that time had risen to the rank of Major, would lead the tanks as they rolled onto red square, and Makarov would join him alongside his Alpha Group comrades. Klossovsky and Kamarov, however, had seen and accepted that supporting communism any further was a lost cause and took the decision to defect, joining future president Boris Yeltsin at the defense of the White House in Moscow. The Coup would fail, and the Soviet Union would collapse.

Mikhail would never forget his brother-in-law's betrayal, and from that day forward would refuse to acknowledge Kamarov's very existence, and forced his wife to do the same to her own brother. Mikhail would never get the chance to forgive, either, as he spent the next decade drinking his way to an eventual untimely death. Disowned by his family, Kamarov would find solace in the only way he knew how, continuing his military work under the Russian Federation; only to one day find Roman Klossovsky himself as his commander-in-chief.

Vladimir Makarov too would never forget the betrayal, but would not dwell too deeply on it. Instead, he would pursue a second rise of communism with what he considered the next best thing: the Ultranationalist Party. Their leader at that time was Imran Zakhaev, and Vladimir knew his face immediately. Zakhaev had been a high-flyer in Eastern Sunrise during their short but memorable reign of terror and Makarov had been shown a photo of the man just before the ill-fated incursion. He did his best to forget that fact, as Zakhaev would take him under his wing, but after his new mentor's death and the rise of Boris Vorshevsky, Makarov would taste betrayal once again.

After executing his very own false flag operation as an act of vengeance against Vorshevsky, he would meet a face from his past, somebody he never though he would see again. Roman Klossovsky.

It took a lot of soul-searching to convince Makarov not to kill the former Capitalist President there and then, but even a mad-dog killer has a code of honor. Klossovsky had saved his life once, and he was offering him a chance to take down Vorshevsky once and for all.

It was a chance he simply had to take.


	35. Tensions

The events that day, while many years ago, were also present in the mind of Vladimir Makarov himself as he stepped out onto a small tarmac runway in an airfield just north of Istanbul. Klossovsky had spent that day trying to convince him to board a plane without telling him exactly where the destination was going to be. It was a proposition so suspicious that it bordered on ridiculous, and had anyone else asked him it, he would have laugh at how thinly veiled the trap was. Yet Makarov's curiosity got the better of him when the words were uttered by Klossovsky's mouth. The former President was a desperate man, with his own troops now under another man's command, fighting a civil war of which there would be no victor.

This time it mattered not whether the Ultranationalists or the Loyalists came out on top on the field of battle. The Americans were going to invade no matter whom it was that ended up in the Kremlin. Even if Klossovsky did double-cross Makarov right now and deliver him to them himself, it would change very little, as Vladimir had merely been a catalyst, and removing him would not remove the plain facts that Vorshevsky had reacted to his attack by invading America, all but destroying major cities and spilling endless blood. Killing Makarov would do nothing except add yet another statistic to the hundreds of thousands who had fallen already. War was inevitable unless somebody took far more drastic action.

"Now we are here, Vladimir, I can tell you of my little idea." Klossovsky announced. "In the hangar to your left is a small private jet registered to a good friend of mine, who just so happens to be quite the higher up in the current Russian government. That, my friend, is our easy ticket back to Russia."

"Why the hell do you want to go back to Russia?" Makarov asked, his arms folded and his gaze still untrusting. "Into the lion's den? We won't last five minutes. Everybody there will know our faces."

"I want to go to Russia because something I cannot obtain anywhere else is waiting for us there." Klossovsky answered. "As I have said before, I have something you need if you want to win the war before it starts. Something to not only remove your old friend Vorshevsky from the seat of power, but to also shock the Americans into cancelling the invasion."

"I'm listening. When we met in Morocco, Klossovsky, you spoke of removing Moscow from the map. I'd like to know how on earth you plan on achieving that."

"I'm sure you do." Klossovsky shot a fiendish grin back at Makarov. "I have given it much thought myself. There are so many ways of doing such a thing, but personally, I would rather see my beautiful city still stand in more or less one piece. It's not like Moscow can help it if the rancid, diseased rats that call themselves the government inhabit them, but I can. When your old associates ousted me from power, they couldn't stop me from collecting a few…_mementos_, as an insurance policy to dissuade them from traipsing around the word trying to finish me off. I, my friend, have access to something that can wipe the slate absolutely clean."

"Oh. And what might that be, then?"

Klossovsky denied Vladimir anything further with a shake of the head. "Look Makarov, I take it as a matter of principal that you do not trust me. I assure you the feeling is most definitely mutual. Mentioning any more is an unnecessary risk to my personal safety, but you will discover more once we reach Murmansk."

_Murmansk. _Makarov played around with the word for a while in his head, knowing full well that Klossovsky knew he would become hooked purely by the mention of the name. Murmansk was a port for the Northern fleet of the Russian Navy, and a place he had visited many times both as a Soviet soldier and as an right hand man to Zakhaev, as the Ultranationalist leader rampaged around the country on a quest for his prized spent fuel rods. The reason for this was that Murmansk was a nuclear graveyard, a place where ships and submarines went to die, and in Russia, they died slowly and messily, leaking their poison into the surrounding seas. Now Makarov was very interested, and against his better judgment, nothing was going to stop him getting on that plane.

As Klossovsky confidently marched onward to the hangar, Makarov looked back one last time. His mismatched eyes saw the distant city in all its glory, the ships and fishing boats waltzing in the topaz harbor as the faint sounds of the call to prayer echoed around the lofty, ornate minarets of the stunningly elegant mosques. It was a bizarrely tranquil scene to depart Istanbul to, and most likely it would be one of the last images of peace this man of violence would ever get the chance to see. As he turned back he discovered Viktor and Anatoly, who both carried looks of considerable anxiety, had been standing still and waiting for him.

"Much as I wish to dissuade you from this venture, sir." Viktor said, sounding uncharacteristically on edge. "I can tell you have already made up your mind."

"Indeed I have, Viktor." Makarov breathed. "Gentlemen, I would understand perfectly if this is where you would wish for us to go our separate ways. You have done me a great service, and I will not forget the sacrifices you have made for the true Ultranationalist Party. Our good comrade Rojas is already long gone, and it is perfectly understandable that you too would not wish to board this flight."

"You're joking, right?" Anatoly smiled. "We've made our decision too. Like it or not, Makarov, we are standing with you."

"So be it, then. Let's go."

* * *

"Klossovsky is a complex man." Kamarov told Archer and Bishop. "But is he a good man. No matter what he is planning with Makarov, he is using his trust to our advantage, and I am sure the outcome is in our own interests."

"Sure." Archer said, his arms crossed and his tone carrying more than a little cynicism. "You hope."

"Look, Archer. I'm not ordering you to start believing me just because I told you exactly what happened in Beirut. I'm not even asking you to trust me, I'm just trying to help you understand the bigger picture."

"Sorry mate." A still highly skeptical Archer shrugged. "And with all due respect, I do trust you, Kamarov. But as far as Klossovsky's concerned, I think I see the picture clearly enough already."

"Look here, guys." Trooper Bishop took the moment to play diplomat before things got any more tense. "We can't assume anything yet, it's too early."

"I know that, Bishop." Archer said. "All I'm saying is-"

"ARCHER!" The interrupting shout came from Ozone, who had just made an appearance in the nearest doorway. Judging by jut how fast the Canadian was breathing and how much he was perspiring; he had been sprinting throughout the length of breadth of the entire aircraft carrier in an attempt to find him. "Why the hell didn't you have your radio on?"

"What is it, Ozone?"

"Captain Price wants to see you on the flight deck, right now." He told him. "The Americans just got back from some op in Russia. Apparently they've retrieved some very important information."

"What kind?"

"I don't know." Ozone answered hastily, eager for Archer to follow him. "I was merely ordered to find you, so I guess we'll find out when we get there. Kamarov, it would probably be best if you came with me as well."

"Very well." The Russian said. "After you, then."

"Yeah, alright." Archer added, turning back to Bishop. "You stay here for now, Trooper. If Mercer or Steyn come around today, I want them to see at least one person they recognize. If I don't see you again, good luck with whatever they have got in store for you at Credenhill."

"Yes sir." Bishop replied, saluting. "Been an honor, sir."

As Archer, Ozone and Kamarov reached the flight deck, the primarily dominating sight to them was an aircraft primarily designed for inserting and withdrawing Special Forces personnel deep behind enemy lines, the Sikorsky MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter. Based on the damage and the amount of bullet holes that peppered the fuselage, the Pave Hawk had undoubtedly just carried out such a mission.

Surrounding the helicopter were a group of Americans, a few of which Archer recognized as men from Toad's old Marine unit, as well as a few others he had not seen before which were the Rangers. None of them wore military gear or insignia, and each looked wretched, in agony and beaten half-to-death. These were incredibly tough men even by Task Force standards, with even the most inexperienced of them having lived through battles in the Washington suburbs, along the Potomac and into the Capital City itself, so to see them so destroyed by what they had just endured in Russia quite the shock to the system.

Captain Price and MacTavish were already deep in conversation about what these men had experienced with the American team leader, Lieutenant Michael Carver. Behind Carver, another member of his team was consoling Toad, who was visibly upset at the news his comrade had brought him.

"Goddamn, looks like we've been missing out, eh?" Ozone said under his breath. "Apparently they volunteered for it, too."

"Well, good for them." Archer replied, waiting to continue as another Navy fighter jet screamed past. "Difficult as it is to believe, Ozone, we're not the only ones doing the fighting around here."

"I know that. Never said it was a bad thing, either."

As Archer approached, Price ushered the fellow SAS man over to join him.

"Good to see you, Leftenant." The Captain said. "Archer, I would like you to meet Lieutenant Carver, of the United States Marines."

Archer looked over at the weary Carver. "Yes, I know who you are, mate. Toad has already told me all about you and your team."

"I've heard plenty about you lot, too." Carver replied, his New York accent a little more than a gravelly rasp but still showing traces of his usual confidence. "Not like the reputations of you and your Task Force don't precede you already or anything. It's great to finally meet you. I mean that."

"Much appreciated, Lieutenant. So, what the bloody hell happened to you and your boys over there then?"

"The Marines and the Rangers have been running a series of clandestine operations for the Agency." Price butted in with the answer before Carver had the chance to retort. "They were sent to assist the Loyalists with their uprising in St. Petersburg."

"Yea-Yeah, that." The Marine continued. "And it was going along just great until we encountered this army of one Russkie motherfucker dug in hard at an old apartment complex. By some miracle he hadn't killed any of us before we'd captured him, but unfortunately for us, that was just the start. These Special Forces types in natty sky blue uniforms showed up in force soon after, looking for him, but finding us."

"Ah, so you acquainted yourself with the local police force then?" Kamarov added, his Russian accent immediately gaining Carver's attention. "How lovely."

The mixed expression Carver's face carried told of a man who, while he had fought alongside Loyalists in St Petersberg, was understandably going to take some time trusting anybody with a Russian accent, no matter how much they hated the Ultranationalists.

"Yeah. Unfortunately not all Russians are as downright pleasant as you Loyalist lot." His voice hardened. "We were heavily outnumbered. Our situation got seriously fucked up, and not all of us made it back."

"What about the Russian asset?" Archer asked. "Was he of any use? Did you bring him back?"

Carver lamented, shaking his head. "We did our best, given the circumstances. Our Corpsman, McKaye, did his damndest, but the asset's wounds were too much. Damn shame, that, but we still managed to get at least a bit of information. He was one of Klossovsky's men, and he was headed for some kind of meeting with the man himself when OMON got to him."

"So, where was he headed before he got trapped?"

"He was told to board a civilian helicopter bound for the city of Murmansk. Only the pilot got spooked, presumably by all the fighting in the city, and left early."

"Murmansk." Archer wondered aloud. "Sounds familiar."

"That's because it's home to Severomorsk Naval Base." Captain MacTavish informed. "Home to the Northern Fleet of Russia's Navy."

"It was." Price continued. "Until the Admiral over there got caught out by good old Directive Collateral. What Vorshevsky hadn't been expecting, however, was for most under his command to follow suit. Those true Ultranationalists that remain leave it pretty much unguarded. Which is not good news considering Makarov will be involved."

"Indeed, sir." Archer agreed. "I guess we'll have to pay it a visit, then. In the meantime, sir, would you give me a moment to speak with Toad?"

"Yes, sure. I don't see why not."

Archer nodded. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

In only the short time Archer had taken to converse with the others, Toad had almost managed to completely compose himself. Corporal Rick Janis had been a great friend to him back in his days in the Corps, which was only a matter of month's ago now. While he looked upon the simpler days he had spent in Afghanistan somewhat wistfully, they were very far from easy. The men he fought against over there were some of the toughest on earth, a highly potent cocktail of guerrilla tactics mixed in with hard-line religious and political extremism, all on some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth. They were not the type to consider surrender or retreat, and it was old-school, no-nonsense Devil Dogs like Rick whom had both helped keep him alive, with his skilled marksmanship paired with years of experience, and sane, with his dark, acerbic wit on that hellish battlefield.

Now Corporal Janis was just yet another friend killed while Toad was away doing his own thing in Task Force 141, completely unable to step in and intervene from afar. But Toad himself had enough on his plate already with his newer set of comrades, and as he watched Archer make his way over the flight deck, he was thankful that there were at least some of them he could truly trust on the upcoming mission.

Hard as he tried to put his confidence in Captain Price, the prospect of the man on a mission to a Naval base possibly containing poorly guarded nuclear submarines sickened Toad to the core with anxiety, and rightly so given the events of that one day at Petropavlovsk,. He couldn't afford to show his emotions, as he was already well aware of Price knowing of his mistrust, even if the officer hadn't said. He also couldn't let his feelings known to Raptor, as in his eyes the mysterious American seemed to idolize the veteran as a hero, just like _everybody_ else.

He didn't deny Price's earlier heroics in any way, but following his release from the gulag he had not been the man his Special Air Service friends had told him so many stories about. While Price may have been the only one to make that sacrifice, step up and take that seemingly impossible choice to launch the missile and prevent Vorshevsky's victory, Toad just couldn't find it in his heart to forgive a man that in the process had killed more American servicemen than Makarov himself.

Now all he could do is pray that his commanding officer would not try to pull off such an insane act again, hoping to ensure a swift overall allied victory. This time, Vorshevsky would not show surprising restraint and pass it off as a test-fire gone wrong. This time it would be mutually assured destruction all the way.

Toad tried deeply to persuade his doubts that Price would have realized this all himself by now. If he hadn't, God help him.


	36. Suspicions and Doubts

**Author's note: Another dialogue-heavy chapter I'm afraid, but I felt the need to set the scene up for the grand finale chapters and the battles that take place within. As usual, thanks to all readers and reviewers for your amazing support and I do hope you to continue to enjoy my fanfic. As it is my first, it has been quite the learning curve, but a total blast nonetheless.**

* * *

As a man who rarely let the focus of his personal thoughts stray to those outside of what was truly important to the mission at hand and respected the right of others to keep themselves to themselves, Archer wasn't the greatest judge of character. At least, that's what he had always thought of himself, but even he could tell that his friend Toad was not the usual man he was. The recent death of Rick Janis had indeed been a contributing factor to his change in character, but Archer had been noticing something else developing for a while in his partner's psyche, a slower rot, something far deeper than simple grief or even post traumatic stress. Worse still, he was pretty sure that he knew exactly what it was. Being a man that would never get close to cutting it as a psychologist, and would never want to, this was beginning to seriously worry Archer.

"How's are you doing, Dane?" asked Archer, who rarely, if ever, used Toad's actual name when in conversation. Right now he felt it was appropriate.

Toad was on the verge of snapping back at Archer, who knew full well about the grim news that he had just learned and yet was still showing atypical ignorance. However, a quick glance over showed that his friend was carrying a look of genuine concern for Toad, which caused him to try his hardest to loosen up a little.

"I'm alright." The Marine managed to say. "You heard what happened, right? To my friend?"

"I do." Archer confirmed. "I'm sorry about your mate. Fucking shame. Do you want to talk?"

"Nah, I'm alright, bro." Toad said gruffly, furrowing his brow. "I don't know what you got to be sorry about though. I mean, it's not like you had anything to do with the mission, and people die all the time don't they?"

"Well, that's definitely true."

"Damn right." Toad went on. "At least Rick went out like the Marine he was. Better than falling down stairs or fuckin' electrocuting yourself doing some D.I.Y, huh?"

The words left Archer pausing for a moment, pondering that one thing he had always fought tooth and nail to keep right at the very back of his conscience, even if it was his entire profession. Death may be what the job was all about, but dwelling on it here for any length of time was never going to be wise. Archer couldn't just tell Toad to forget his friend. It didn't work like that. But he, as an Officer, had a duty to keep those on his team focused and professional.

"Ugh, I guess." He said gruffly, resting his hand on Toad's shoulder. "But look, mate. You'll know we are heading to Murmansk, and I think you know full well what that means for all of us. I need to know that you are still gonna be-"

"I said I'm alright, Archer!"

"Good man, good man." Archer said, before he exhaled a long, drawn out sigh. "Dane, there's something else I need to talk about, and I seeing as it pains me to even think about it I might as well get it out of the way now. Look, I also know that you know that near Murmansk is a submarine base, yeah?"

"Ye-Yeah, and?" The stuttered delivery of Toad's words displayed his anxiousness, and inside, he scolded himself for Archer seeing right through his facade so quickly. How he was going to act on his mistrust of Price was another matter.

Archer rapidly looked to either side of him, ensuring that there were no wandering ears. He couldn't quite believe what he was about to say to Toad. _Get it over with_, he told himself.

"Don't act stupid." He said, stern and precise. "It doesn't take a bloody genius to start putting two and two together regarding the location of our operation and the recent track record of a certain team leader and start to conjure up a few…possible scenarios that may occur. They won't. But just-"

"God damn it." Toad grumbled as he stared out across the endless ocean, focusing on precisely nothing and continuing to silently curse himself.

"I'm not done." Archer curled his lips into a snarl. "But hey, just be sure, I will keep an eye on our mutual friend. But if we spend too much time watching our friends, we'll forget to keep eyes on our enemies. That's never good."

Archer didn't allow for Toad the time to think a reply up. Instead, the SAS man turned away and headed back towards the rest of the group, leaving the Marine standing in place to mull over his thoughts and face his demons.

"I gotta unfuck myself fast" He thought aloud, trying to center his mind on what positives he could get out of his nightmare. Archer still having his back to a degree was a decent start, and he still had faith in everyone else on the Task Force for the most part too. Hell, the same even went for the Russians. Maybe it all wasn't so bad. Even if it was, he was still going to go to the sub base, and what happened next was only going to be clear when it actually happened.

* * *

As Archer marched his way past Kamarov and out of sight, the Loyalist was joined by Davidenko, who appeared quite stimulated at the prospect of the forthcoming mission, to the extent that the Commander was showing quite visible boyish enthusiasm that betrayed the FSB defector's usual stony disposition.

"Kamarov, this is wonderful news." Davidenko beamed. "Murmansk! It could not have been any more perfect for us!"

"Are you alright, Davidenko?" Kamarov raised an eyebrow in confusion at his fellow Russian's behavior. "The Americans must be putting something in the water on this ship. Murmansk is a horrible place; I've been there many times. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"There is nothing wrong with me." Davidenko dismissed, holding his hand up. "I am only delighted about the choice of location as the base commander there is a personal friend of mine. With luck, I may be able to get us a free roam on the whole area. Then, it could be open season on our friend Makarov. Who knows?"

"I sure don't." Kamarov said, his tone deliberately sarcastic. "Chances are it would just be free roam right into another trap, just like last time's oh-so-brilliantly devised plan."

"Circumstances there were out of my control there." The Commander admitted. "But this will be different, I am sure. Think about it for a second, Klossovsky must have chosen the location because it's one of the few safe places in Ultranationalist territory he can safely pass through. If he can use that to his advantage, so can we."

"Maybe, Commander." Kamarov was still far from convinced. "It still sounds like a recipe for catastrophe to me."

"I'm not sure I'm the one who has the problem here." Davidenko was not appreciating Kamarov's words, and his optimism was quickly being overtaken by anger. "You do want to kill Makarov, don't you? The battles are still racing and innocent people are still getting killed, so why are you so unwilling to take a few gambles to ensure victory?"

"Jesus Christ, man, there's no easy path here." Kamarov grimaced. "We can't be arrogant in the way we handle this thing, it's too sensitive and too dangerous, It'll get us fucking killed!"

"Look, I know the last thing we need right now is another bloodbath. That's why I'm going to go and meet with this guy alone. I don't even want anyone else from my team going with me, because if your reservations are well founded, it'll just be me who pays for it. If I'm right, though, we'll have one very well known terrorist's head delivered to us right on a silver platter."

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

Davidenko's grin returned to his face. "Fuckin' A I'm sure!"

Kamarov shook his head in dismay at the Commander. The man was clearly punch-drunk at the sheer prospect of ending the war early and himself being the one who brought about the curtain call. "If you say so. So what, can you contact this base commander?"

"I can try. Better than nothing, right?"

"_Right._" Kamarov repeated, turned his attention back to Price, who had been too busy speaking with Soap to over the Russians discussion.

"Captain, what time are wheels up?" He called over.

"Soon as bloody possible, I'd hope." Price replied in his typical brusque manner. "You both better get your teams assembled."

"Yes sir." Kamarov nodded, taking a look back at Davidenko as he did so. "You best get on to that buddy of yours, Commander. I hope for your sake he isn't Makarov's friend as well."

Zero Hour was fast approaching. This was their chance, and they had to take it.


	37. Nuclear Graveyard

"Nobody should pin their hopes on a miracle."

* * *

Vladimir Makarov had very rarely, if ever, given consideration to how he would return to his home country. Ideally, he wished to return alive, a legion of supporters in attendance ready to assist him in achieving his final goal of vengeance against Vorshevsky. A closed casket, however, was always the most likely way he was going to make it back. Whether those who received it considered the man a hero to the nation, whose sacrifices guaranteed the rebirth of a stronger and politically unclouded Russia, or nothing more than a malignant, destructive psychopath, was another matter. He wasn't going to give it a single moment's thought though. His action now mattered far more than fancy meanderings into the realm of the whimsical, a realm to which he was very much a stranger.

As it turned out, Makarov would in fact return to Russia in the Communist museum piece of a UAZ-452 panel van that Klossovsky had provided him with at the aerodrome, and which now trundled precariously along a hideously unkempt dirt road that had the audacity to call itself a highway. Makarov sat in the rear of the vehicle, his eyes closed and his arms neatly folded trance-like, as if he was meditating. He was far from it, however, as the feeling of dread that dominated the atmosphere of the van was beginning to seriously jangle even his nerves more than the arctic temperatures ever could. Klossovsky, seated up front next to his driver, had similar discomposure stirring within his usual apathetic mind, the ex-president shifting around uncomfortably in his seat as he stared out through the windshield, his tired but restless eyes focusing on nothing in particular. But unlike Makarov, at least he had the luxury of knowing exactly where the van was destined.

The first destination was a small wooden shack, the first sign of civilization after hours of driving through identical looking snow covered forest roads. While a military jeep had been parked outside, the doors left unlocked and the lights still on, there did not appear to be a single person around.

"Vladimir, come with me." Klossovsky said, the apprehensive smile that managed to edge its way onto his face telling the group that this was how things were supposed to be. "The rest of you, remain here"

The rest of the men were too exhausted by the journey to put up any argument even if they wanted to, and Roman was the first to enter the building, which at some point in the near past had been a perimeter guard post for Severomorsk Naval Base. As he went inside, a small stove still burned in the corner, the flames still crackling with plenty of life left, and a small candle illuminated a pack of documents on the main table. Whoever had left them had not been gone long.

"It's all here." Klossovsky muttered to himself, flicking his way through the pages of a dossier, "This is good. Very good."

"Good?" Makarov mimicked. "I'd like to know your definition of 'good', Roman. In fact I'd just like to know what the hell is going on right now. I've been good to keep back my questions up to this point, but this is far enough. Now I want some damn answers."

"Answers, huh?" The smile remained with Klossovsky, knowing full well he had complete control over his old adversary and was loving every minute of it. "Alright then, seeing that you indeed been very good. According to these instructions we are to head over to the northern gate of Severomorsk, where the identity cards and pass codes I have will give us free access to the rest of the area, so long as we don't become a nuisance and attract to much attention to ourselves."

Makarov looked back at him. "Doesn't sound so bad. Then what happens?"

"We await the arrival of another friend of mine. Sadly this is where we will part ways, and he will take you to your next destination."

Even now everything about the plan left alarm bells ringing in Makarov's head, and yet he still found himself nodding at every word Klossovsky had to say. There was still a grain of trust and respect in his mind for the man, even though Beirut was such a long time ago. Another thing that spurned him onwards was that Klossovsky was not the kind of man to underestimate his enemy any longer. He had learned that lesson the hard way from the Ultranationalist resurgence and coup, and was very unlikely to play Makarov for such a fool. If he really was that idiotic, he'd be dead before he knew it, and Vladimir would just have to continue his mission without the man and whatever he had to offer him.

"We better get moving then." He said, turning and exiting the building without waiting for the inevitably arrogant response.

As he paced his way back through the blanket of snow towards the vehicle, a half-frozen Anatoly, who swung open the passenger door, a look of anticipation on his face, greeted Makarov.

"You-you two get what you came for then?" Anatoly asked, his voice barely hearable over his own labored breathing.

"No." Makarov replied curtly. "So get back in your seat and shut up. We still have a way to go."

"Not far now, really." Klossovsky insisted, climbing his way back into his seat. "In fact we're almost there. Ha! Onwards, driver, to Murmansk, jewel of the Kola Peninsular!"

* * *

**30 Minutes Later. Task Force 141 arrives at the opposite side of Severomorsk Naval Base.**

The matted grey warships the defectors had left behind loomed in the bay of the Kola, empty and harmless yet still remaining mighty, intimidatory and formidable. The spectral fleet patiently awaiting the return of their absent crew was a haunting and impressive sight. Around the port itself rotted the remains of obsolete hulks of communist submarines. Rusted beyond repair, they had been left for years to leak their poison, and still continued to do so. It had been decades now since the downfall, but the Soviet Union still left behind a toxic legacy.

Vorshevsky's forces were obviously having their work cut out with the anti-government troops now more than ever, because Task Force 141's arrival into Russia had been a smooth, trouble-free exercise in comparison to previous accounts. Even as they neared the area there was still no sign of welcome parties, helicopters or even a simple everyday patrol. Clearly, every able-bodied Ultranationalist was off elsewhere fighting for the cause. But that didn't mean that this job was going to be a walk in the park. Each one of them, including the Russians to avoid friendly fire, had been issued experimental camouflage clothing and gear by Raptor that resembled a typical digital pattern, but had been extensively modified to suit the conditions of Russia, urban and rural, in the grip of winter. It was an alarming reminder that should the Task Force fail, this gear would be what the entire US Army would wear should the nightmare of a final option be approved and a full-scale invasion took place.

Toad edged his way past the second perimeter fence, which was disturbingly damaged for a base that apparently housed such sensitive material. Worse still, the base itself was completely unguarded; a fact Commander Davidenko had proven a forty minutes earlier when he had simply opened the unlocked gate and tentatively strolled inside to find the base commander. After the short wait Davidenko had promised, however, he had failed to return, and thus the squad was left with no choice but to push onwards without him.

To the Westerners of the squad, this was not such devastating news. The ghost town state the deserters had left the base in meant passing through it would not be as anywhere near as difficult as previously expected, after all. But to the Russians, in particular those who were a part of Davidenko's old FSB team, this was a serious chink in the armor. Even Natasha, who had worked for the Loyalists without any communication or direction from him for many months, felt dismayed at the sizeable void his absence left in the team.

As her fellow officer Marki Kirshov passed her by, he deliberately avoid any eye contact with her, and Natasha noticed a change in the young man that she hadn't quite expected to see. He was back to the confident and unflinching Kirshov she remembered from officer training, his behavior far away from the self-doubt and hesitancy he displayed back at the ambush. It was as if he was already preparing to use the Commander's disappearance as a window for his redemption through becoming the de-facto leader of the FSB defectors. _Marki must have less faith in him than I do. _She thought. _The old man won't go that easily._

Compromised or not, the Commander had his own objective to get on with. Everyone else had to concentrate on their own mission; the one they had been most eagerly waiting for: the indemnification and neutralization of Vladimir Makarov.

Binoculars around his neck, an M4 firm in his hands and a Cheytac strapped to his back, Toad had spent the entire journey over praying that he would be the one to put the mad dog killer in the ground, but the closer he got to his objective the more he knew it was the wish of each and every one of them, and the less he cared. As long as somebody did the job, it didn't matter in the slightest.

All the while, Archer remained by Toad's side as the Marine's ever-present shadow, the SAS man now with the extra agenda of keeping his American friend in check, and the closer they got to the submarines, the more he would have to closely monitor the movements of Captain Price as well. He now only hoped neither would allow rash actions or mutual doubt to come between them and successfully bringing down Makarov. A quick glance around to MacTavish revealed nothing more than the empty expression of a man focused on the job. But Archer knew the Scot well, and as Soap looked back he gave a single knowing nod of the head to the sniper.

Up ahead, Ozone had been acting as point man, and as they reached the loading bay for the cargo ships he abruptly froze on the spot and held his left hand open in the air, signaling for the rest of the squad to come to a halt. Ahead of him, the Canadian had seen shadows flickering about like puppets on the large metal shipping containers that transformed the area into a maze. As the walking behind him ceased, he could hear squabbling, slurred Russian voices and the rattly sound of a small petrol engine idling.

"There's movement down there." He informed with a whisper. "Can't get a visual, though."

"Alright, then." Captain Price replied coolly. "We're going to have to move in, but be bloody careful. Kamarov, go with Ozone. If anyone can get a positive I.D on Makarov and Klossovsky at a safe distance, it's you."

"Very well, Price." Said the Russian. "I'm moving."

Ozone passed through the maintenance entrance gate, which had been forcibly unbolted by whoever now occupied the bay. With Kamarov following close, he edged his way along the side one of the huge iron boxes, careful not to break from the shadows with the many powerful spotlights dotted around. He made his way closer still, before finally coming across the source of the engine sound, a small Lada Samara hatchback with the trunk open and loaded with small wooden boxes. Before he could investigate further, he jumped back around the container as three men approached it, one carrying a rifle, the other two carrying yet more boxes. As they loaded the car, they stopped to talk, before breaking into what seemed to be an argument.

"Well, what are they saying?" Ozone asked, turning to Kamarov. "Is it them?"

Kamarov shook his head in disappointment. "It's not them. Sound like nothing more than petty thieves to me, trying to steal anything of value they find now this place has been abandoned."

"Damn." Ozone cursed, going back to his radio. "Negative I.D over here, Captain. Not sure who these guys are. Probably just some thugs or mercenaries turning the place over."

"Copy that. We're moving up."

"Okay then." Ozone continued. "So, what now?"

"Doesn't look like there are very many of them." Kamarov observed. "We can't risk alerting them though, that'll mean a lot of shouting and shooting. We don't want to frighten little Makarov away, do we?"

"Sneaking past shouldn't be too difficult." Ozone suggested.

"Da, but few silent takedowns wouldn't be hard either. I really don't think we can risk the possibility of these guys returning to crash our little party."

"Looks like its your call, lads." Price declared as he appeared at their position. "But I agree that we shouldn't take any…unnecessary risks."

"I think so too, sir." Soap added.

A Price turned back to the remainder of the group, MacTavish signaled his approval of the takedown method by drawing his knife and motioning the slitting of a throat. Somewhat reluctantly, Ozone agreed. In his mind he knew these men were criminals trying to make easy money from acquiring some free stock, not pace-loving innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even if they did sneak past there was going to be a firefight at this compound eventually, and the consequences of leaving possible witnesses to tell the story were not worth comprehending. There was only one option, but his conscience would suffer little.

The looters must have been drinking before deciding it was a great idea to launch a three-man raid on a deserted military establishment. They caused little delay by immediately breaking off from each other to plunder more crates, and while they were in fact armed, their lack of radio equipment or any sense of order made the work of the Task Force so easy it was almost pathetic. As the last man alive walked through the darkness, he passed by a crouched and waiting Ozone without even picking up the soldier's presence, his intoxicated state betraying his natural senses right up until the blade of the knife was touching his the very edge of his throat.

"Target down." Ozone announced as he carefully helped the body to the floor. "Is the area clear?"

"Roger that, we're good." Price answered. "All hostiles neutralized. Now we must await the main event. Let's regroup."

After the brief flash of violence all anyone was able to do was remain hidden and wait for Makarov's eventual arrival. It was tedious business; seconds passing slowly even to the likes of professional snipers, to whom waiting hours in a state of stasis was second nature. But this was not the usual quarry they were after. This was Vladimir Makarov, and the prospect of bringing an end to his despicable life was far too much for even the steeliest nerves.

* * *

After nearly an hour had passed them by, the team had begun to take turns to patrol the perimeter of the base for any signs of movement. As Natasha Monotova returned from her fruitless stint, she passed the dubious baton on to MacTavish and while she had to still remain alert, there was finally the chance to take a brief moment's respite.

Natasha re-entered the loading area and met up with Archer and Toad, neither of whom seemed in any sort of mood to do anything other than scanning blankly across the bay, refusing to even acknowledge her appearance. After what had happened on their last mission and in St Petersburg it was unsurprising that both would have a change in behavior, particularly towards a Russian. Even so, she still considered them good friends and great allies, and could only hope the two were not so narrow-minded as to think less of her for the actions of her countrymen. The Ultranationalists were her foes too, after all.

"Enjoying the waiting game, gentlemen?" She asked, attempting to spark up a conversion.

"I don't mind the waiting game." Archer replied, after a long pause. "Long as there's a pay-off, that is."

"I agree." Toad concurred. "And we are in for one hell of a pay off today."

Natasha smiled cautiously, pleased to see that Toad was actually speaking to her. After Davidenko had made her aware that while on a deniable operation OMON troops had killed a fellow Marine and personal friend of his, and out of fear for his reaction she had deliberately stayed out of his way. Ever since she had deeply regretted the decision and the shame it had brought on her.

"I sure hope so." She folded her arms, unsure of what choice words to use next. "It's good to see you again, Toad. I guess I have…I better apologize for avoiding you on the ship after what had happened to your comrade. I thought I was being respectful, but really I was callous and cowardly. So, I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Lieutenant." Toad assured her. "It's war, these things happen, and I hope you don't think I would take it out on a friend just for being a Russian. Trust me, you have some far bigger problems to be worrying about than hurting my feelings."

"True, I guess..."

"You heard anything from the Commander, Lieutenant?" Archer questioned. "It's been a long time now, huh? Maybe the sly old fox went and found Makarov without us."

"I haven't heard anything." She shook her head, still trying to believe in the faint possibility that Davidenko hadn't been captured, or worse. "But I haven't heard gunshots either, and he has an emergency transponder which hasn't been activated, so I have some hope. Kirshov, on the other hand-"

"I've noticed his change. Already seeing himself as the new boss is he? Don't forget you're an officer too, are you going to stand by and let it happen?"

"I have no time for petty rivalry." Natasha dismissed the SAS man's words. "And now is most certainly not the time to start anything of the sort. I follow my orders from Raptor now anyway, just like you. Kirshov is an old friend, if he does replace Davidenko, I'll continue to trust in him and I'll support him the best I can."

"Yeah, very well." Archer said with a smile. "The lad does have a lot of potential, it's good you trust him."

"_Good that somebody has some trust in someone." _

The three looked over collectively to see Ozone appear from behind one of the containers. Hushed as the conversation was, he had overheard it; in the same way he had managed to hear the gist of Archer and Toad's little talk back on the aircraft carrier without either of them even noticing his presence. Their mistrust in Price at such an important time disturbed him profoundly, as did their continuing reluctance to consult or confide with him in any way. To them, he was just the good soldier who should be left to get on with the job.

"Lieutenant Monotova, I think if would be good for all of us if you were to rejoin your men." The Canadian said. "Sorry darlin', but me and the boys need to have ourselves a little conversation."

"Excuse me, Sergeant?" The young woman's fists began to clench, her lips curling into an aggravated snarl at the disrespectful tone of voice the enlisted man had used towards her. However, as she turned and focused her incensed, narrowed eyes in the direction of Archer and Toad, she only received authoritarian nods of approval at Ozone's suggestion.

"Fine, that'll be all." She straightened up and conceded with a shrug.___ "_This isn't the time or the place for idle chatter anyway. I guess I should be thanking you for stopping me, Ozone, as I was getting unfocused. I should go and prepare. Hopefully later…ah, forget it."

Natasha made sure to shoulder her way past Ozone as forcefully as possible as she passed him, her petulance merely managing to earn a dark smirk from the JTF2 soldier who was at substantially heavier and the very least a good half a foot taller than her. He'd hoped not to annoy her quite as much as he had, but the female officer was very tenacious, and it took effort in order to remove her, especially from Toad's side. He might have temporarily lost a friend, but it was necessary.

"Right then." Ozone said, confident that the FSB officer was now out of hearing range. "Seeing that it doesn't look our terrorist friend is going to show any time soon, I think it's my turn to talk."

"What is it, Ozone?" Archer responded. "Is there something troubling you? I hope you've got your mind on-"

"Oh, my mind is on the job all right." Ozone cut in, pointing a finger at the British officer. "Maybe you should be looking a bit closer to home before you start becoming suspicious of others."

"The fuck do you think you're talking to?" Toad snarled. "You're getting real close to crossin' the line here, Soldier!"

"Me? Me crossing a line, Toad?" The wry, mocking smirk returned to Ozone's face. "Maybe…maybe I am, but I'm not the one who always looks like he's about to shoot our commanding officer in the back!"

"How dare you!"

"Whatever." Ozone shrugged off the rage Toad was directing at him. "I might consider you two as my friends, but I'm not going to stand back and allow a mutiny!"

"Jesus Christ." Archer said. "If you want this mission to succeed, then I'd suggest keeping your voice down and not screaming at each other like misbehaving children. Ozone, look, we're not about to start a mutiny, we're just keeping an eye on Price. That all, in case you haven't noticed, this a submarine base, so go figure that one out."

Ozone grimaced at first before finally succumbing with a bow of the head in stubborn, weary agreement. With the Canadian calmed down to a point, Archer then turned his attention to Toad.

"And you." He said. "Calm the bloody hell down, alright? The last thing we need is Task Force 141 splitting into separate factions. It's hard enough working with Loyalists and defectors as it is, not to mention taking part in questionable missions of dubious intelligence for a man with no rank and no name. We've been though a lot already, but we have to stay together as a team right now or we're fucked, and we might as well have given up at the safehouse. Is that understood?"

"Okay." Toad said. "Understood."

"Understood, sir." Ozone echoed.

Before Archer could continue any further, his attention was taken by the distant, distinctive thunder of at least two twin-engine helicopters, most likely the ubiquitous workhorse of the Russian military, the Mil Mi-8. The aircraft, whether friend or foe, were the only sign of civilization for miles around, and a reminder that while this base was deathly silent, the second Russian civil way still held the entire country in an iron grip. Although travelling sound can be deceptive, it also sounded as if they were heading right for the port.

"Captain Price, we've got two helicopters approaching." MacTavish confirmed the suspicion over the radio. "Ultranationalist markings by the looks of it. They've got searchlights and door gunners. These guys mean business."

"Roger that, Soap." Price's voice replied. "Team, stay hidden until they've passed. It looks like we're about to be rewarded for our patience."

"Ah, finally." Toad breathed. "It's about damn time."

"We can agree on that." Ozone replied.

The Mi-8 Hips soared overhead, slowly lowering their speed and eventually coming to a hover just past the loading area, the attached searchlights beginning to dart around the area in what appeared to be a frenzied search for something or someone. But they had not seen anything, and were not looking for the Task Force. Instead, the lights were acting as a beacon for a small vehicle that entered the bay from another entrance, the two small headlights moving forwards the only sign of its presence. Somewhere, Makarov was amongst them, so close yet so far. Everybody could just sense it.

As Archer, Toad and Ozone remained still and cloaked in the darkness, Captain Price emerged to join them at their position. The real tests were about to begin, both of the team's combat skill and of their ability to put the past behind them to take down something bigger than personal mistrust. Price was far from stupid, he could easily see the fragility of the alliance and understood every reason why it was that way. But, no matter what, there was still nobody else he would rather be fighting alongside.

"This is it, people." Price said. "I'm not going to pretend that bringing an end to Makarov will end everything today, but it'll be a real good start. Follow me."


	38. Lines Drawn

"Davidenko? I see you really did come alone. Maybe you are a man of your word after all."

The lighting of the base commander's office was dim, a single faltering light bulb hanging loosely from the ceiling giving the whole room a grimy, flickering yellow luminescence. Gav Davidenko didn't need to see a thing, though, to immediately recognize the voice that had spoken to him. After all, he and his fellow Commander, Valentina Redinova, had not always been the worst of enemies. While they had never been friends exactly, they at least shared an amicable rivalry in the Federal Security Service. Now the veteran Special Operations Division officer stood with her back to him, arms behinds her back and her vivid blue eyes carefully monitoring the oblivious Task Force operatives that moved in on the compound below. Whatever her position for or against the Ultranationalists now was, nothing changed her relish in the opportunity to be the overseer of another battle, and bask in the morbid fascination of watching those living, breathing pawns of the game move into their positions.

"I see you've remained as honorable as usual, Commander." Davidenko said. "I'm delighted that you really did keep your promise. I thought the will of the Ultranationalist psyche, and by that I mean the way of betrayal and dishonor, might have slowly had an effect on you."

Redinova turned to face him directly, still proud, still defiant, but there was something else, a deeper nervousness about her that only a select few would be able to detect. Commander Davidenko was one of those people, for sure, but he too had put himself at grave risk by agreeing to the meet. If his own people discovered he was talking with the Ultranationalist high command's top tacticians, chances were they wouldn't give him the opportunity for an explanation.

"I've worked for the communists, the capitalists, and everybody in-between." She replied, removing her officer's cap and carefully placing it down before perching herself on the side of the desk. "I've followed my orders from each of them with honor, without question in the name of duty to my country-our country-and our people, Davidenko. Only the Ultranationalists have managed to push me this far, and that is why I needed to see you."

"What have they done?" Davidenko said. "I thought the Ultras saw you as something of an icon. Without you, they probably wouldn't even still be in a position of power."

"Perhaps that was the case once." Redinova reflected momentarily, before quickly snapping back to reality. "Not any longer. I have finally outstayed my welcome. Vorshevsky still believes in me to get the job done, but I cannot say the same for his new best friend General Greyenko."

"Oh dear, what a damn shame." Davidenko sneered. "Have you only come here to sit around wasting my time all day, or have you actually come with something that might be of some use, or at least some interest to me and my men?"

"Well, yes, I do." Valentina answered mulishly, pushing her vibrant hair away from her face. "I don't like this either, you know. We want the same thing now. Well, I think we've always wanted the same thing really, you and I. Now we work for the same man, I think we should take the opportunity to put the past behind us."

Davidenko blinked in disbelief. "What?"

"When I retuned to Moscow under the General's orders, I knew something was very seriously wrong. More wrong than usual, I mean. There have always been attempts on my life, it comes with the job I've chosen to do and if anything I'm rather numb to it now. But not when someone who apparently is on your side is sending mercenaries after you in order to gain full command. Thankfully for me, the American…Raptor he calls himself, found me first. He recognizes and appreciates my skillset and offered me a helping hand to escape if I were to join him."

"So, you suddenly fight for the 'western plague' now, do you?" Davidenko jeered. "And now you want to help those you called traitors, irredeemable and corrupted? Funny, Raptor never felt the need to mention this to me."

"Of course he didn't." Redinova grinned tauntingly. "He would compromise everything if he had done so. He isn't a feckless idiot, like the brutes Vorshevsky relies on to keep order."

"In case you don't remember, Commander, the Ultranationalists used to be terrorists." Davidenko said darkly. "No, they _still are_ terrorists; all that's changed is they just sit in fancy parliament buildings and wear prissy suits and nicer uniforms. But they are still the same people who slaughtered civilians, murdered prisoners of war and committed god knows how many other atrocities in the civil war tore our country apart. You chose your side Valentina. The wrong side."

Valentina shook her head. "No, no, I didn't agree with them, not always. But they were the ruling government, and I couldn't bring myself to commit treason, not then. Not after-"

"You stood with them every step of the way, even though they saw you and your little battlefield code more of an old-fashioned hindrance than help. You've killed my allies; Loyalists and men under my command for them and you can't change that now, just because suddenly your back was against the wall, and you've had a nice chat with the Americans about it. If what you've said about Raptor is true, he better have a fucking great reason to send you here today, because I'm not quite so willing to give you a reprieve!"

"Well, Gav, you can simply shoot me now if it makes you feel a bit better, I won't resist. I'm not trying to escape from my fate at the last minute, and I will pay for my choices at some point in the near future. But for now, please listen to me."

"Shit, alright." Davidenko acceded. "Go on, I'm listening."

Valentina nodded in appreciation of Davidenko's ability to remain calm to the point of allowing her to make her case. Even after all he had been through, the news of Raptor possibly accepting Redinova into the ranks had hit him like a ton of bricks. After what had happened with Directive Collateral, it was understandable that it felt like a betrayal to him. Davidenko himself could only hope that his new master really knew what he was doing, and what powers he was meddling with. Allowing him a few seconds to gather his thoughts, Redinova turned back to the window as the helicopters began to move in and descend, a sign that Makarov was now starting to put his pieces onto the table. It was only a matter of time now before the game itself began, time which was very quickly running out. She could not afford to mince her words.

"Good." She said. "Now, much as I appreciate what our friend Raptor has done for me, today he is making a grave mistake. We all know Vorshevsky must be removed, no matter what the cost. Thankfully with each passing moment our goal looks more and more likely, but if your-our-commanding officer has his way today we will take many serious steps back. If we allow this operation to go ahead, the consequences will be disastrous. I mean, we may even snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, a prospect I don't find particularly alluring."

"Ha, is that so?" Davidenko, on appearance at least, was unconvinced by Redinova's words. "Seems to me you're already trying to convince me to jeopardize this mission before you've even gained my trust. I don't even know if anything you've said is in any way true, or of Raptor has actually spoken to you. I know how persuasive you can be, Commander. You were a '_swallow_' once, after all. I can assure you your petty mind games won't work with me."

"Who told you….god damn it!" Redinova bit her lip, fighting back her emotions regarding her less-than-honorable past; emotions Davidenko had been sure to stir up. He was trying to break her, but there was nothing left to break. She didn't like her new allegiance with an old enemy any more than he did, but this was the last resort.

"You don't need my word, but you have it." She continued. "You can try to contact Raptor if you like, but the men down there aren't going to politely wait around while you do so. Maybe I really am lying, but I'm still going to tell you why this plan is going to fail. The anti-government troops are closing in on Moscow as we speak, backing the President further and further into the corner. This truce between Makarov and Klossovsky, bizarre and delicate as it is, has brought about untold unity between the rival rebel factions, and while they don't really work together, as such, but they no longer get in each other's way. And they are causing one hell of a nightmare for Vorshevsky, his blood is cold, his days numbered."

"So you just want us to sit around and do nothing other than hope for the best?" Davidenko smirked. "Not my style. Particularly when Makarov is involved."

"You don't get it. Makarov doesn't want absolute power; he's only motivated by his lust for revenge. With him dead, all you'll do is strengthen the man who betrayed him. With the likes of Price and MacTavish on your team, I highly doubt Klossovsky will be spared either. It was Roman himself who first got in touch with me, begging me to speak with Raptor. I know what he did to the FSB in Morocco, and that he he may be mentally unstable, but the influence he carries across the nation is still tremendous. The repercussions of killing one will be catastrophic for your mission, but killing both?"

For once, Davidenko was speechless. His rage against Makarov, the bastard that brought about the Moscow airport massacre and the resulting retaliation war, had in a way blinded him from seeing with his usual rational clarity. Much as he hated to admit it, Redinova was right on this occasion. Somehow, he had to keep the men he had been sent to kill alive.

"I can't believe I'm gonna say this." Davidenko blanched. "Oh god. So what…what can we do?"

_"Finally, I thought you'd never ask."_

* * *

"I hope you don't mind me bringing some friends of mine along." Makarov said. "Modern GPS systems are just wonderful, huh?"

"Fine, but a helicopter won't be able to get you where we're headed." Klossovsky replied, with more than an air of cautiousness in his voice. "We're still waiting for my guys to show."

"Don't be alarmed, Roman. It's just a precaution."

Makarov's little 'precaution' was a small team from what remained of his own private mercenary army, now a much smaller force much in thanks to Task Force 141 and Shadow Company's, but despite the best efforts of both was far from a spent and defeated force. The ones he had called upon today were more than just typical guns for hire, though. These were the most elite men he could summon, his most devout soldiers, a group of staunch Ultranationalists, and disciples to what they believed were the true Ultranationalist ideals set down by Imran Zakhaev. A few of them had even been so since the days of Eastern Sunrise. They called themselves the Brotherhood of the Black Star, and they had returned from the shadows one more time, to assist the one man who had truly remained loyal to the cause. Klossovsky had met them before, including the man he had sent to St. Petersburg on his behalf.

The Black Star team leader, a lofty, heavy-set man dressed in Flora-Pattern Spetsnaz tactical gear, leapt down from the passenger door of the helicopter and made is way over to the group. Initially he was unable to identify Makarov, hidden under layers of heavy snow clothing and masked behind a balaclava, reflective goggles covering up his distinctive eyes.

"Captain Lorvovsky." Makarov said. "I'm so very pleased you could make it."

"Makarov?" Lorvovsky answered. "Is that really you, old friend? Thank god. We had not heard from you for a while, it's good to see you are well. The same goes for you, Viktor, and you, Anatoly. Mr. Klossovsky, it is less of a pleasure to see you here, but I will not question the decisions of my leader. I'm sure you are of some use to us, in…err…some way."

"Charmed." Klossovsky muttered to no response.

"The hostility is not needed, Lorvovsky." Makarov advised. "Roman here has been very helpful to all of us, despite our differences. After all, revenge against Vorshevsky ranks high on both of our agendas. He is, however, making me wait for the arrival of something. And he is refusing to tell me what it is."

"I could get that information if you want." The Captain suggested monotonously., making sure to make direct eye contact with the former president. "It would only take me a moment."

"Oh, that won't be necessary." Klossovsky said, avoiding the glare from Lorvovsky and making sure to draw the concentration of the men from him to his own focus of attention, the bay behind them.

As Makarov and his men swung around to observe, they saw the great black conning tower of the _Kalyazin,_ an Oscar-Class Project 949A submarine, one of the biggest nuclear cruise missile submarines of any navy in the world, cutting through the water like the creeping dorsal fin of an immense mechanical shark. As the ominous, colossal vessel arrived at the docks, the crew began to disembark onto the jetty; led by the Captain, distinguishable by his white-topped cap and the tricolor flag on his shoulders displaying that he was also a loyalist, of sorts. As he approached, the Captain and his men halted and saluted.

"Comrade Klossovsky." He said. "I am honored you have chosen us for this mission. I guess it is time."

"Indeed so, Captain." Klossovsky replied. "Makarov, Lorvovsky, meet Captain Zhirkov of the _Kalyazin. _This is the friend of mine I was talking about earlier. Zhirkov will be responsible for taking you and your team undetected to an old base of mine, somewhere not even Vorshevsky knows about."

"Why?" Makarov queried. "We already have plenty of good aircraft. Now, we have a nuclear submarine. Why would we need anything else?"

"Not quite." Klossovsky continued. "Unfortunately, Vladimir, the _Kalyazin _is not currently equipped with a ballistic missile arsenal. It matters little, though, because-"

Before Roman Klossovsky could reveal anymore to Makarov, a remote detonator set off a massive explosion in the center of the fuel depot at the rear of the base, the carefully-placed location being far enough away to avoid serious injury to anyone on either side, but the chain reaction and subsequent shockwave was still powerful enough to throw Makarov, Klossovsky and their men though the air like discarded toys.

Coughing and spluttering as he eventually scrambled to his feet, Makarov attempted to regain his bearings make some kind of sense of the scenario, something that wasn't quite so simple when he could hardly even keep his feet balanced, his breathing labored and hurried, vision still heavily blurred and his hearing nothing more than a high pitched ringing.

As a matter of principle he immediately suspected this all to be a traitorous act by Klossovsky, but before he had the chance to search for the ex-president his returning vision was drawn away, just making out a single figure emerging from the gloom of the container yard, running at serious pace towards him and the distinct outline of a rifle in his hands. Makarov had no time to think, no place to run. Whoever was attacking him, the fight was on.


	39. Echoes

**Author's note: I'm going to have to apologize for just how damn long this chapter took. I started it weeks ago, but went away on a trip for work and returned with nothing but good old-fashioned writer's block. I have the whole ending mapped out in my mind from here, but it's actually writing it that has been the biggest challenge. My thanks for everyone who has stuck with me, and read/reviewed my story! Couldn't do it without you all!**

* * *

A messy, confusing firefight was far from how Task Force 141 had been wishing to carry out their objective, but the shock of the blast meant a stealth operation was no longer an option on the table. There was no time to discuss the events that had just happened, no time to think about the correlation with Davidenko's disappearance and no time to point fingers at whoever they thought might be responsible for this bolt out of the blue. All that was certain was that they had failed to identify Makarov amongst the many men in the crowd in time, so now the only option left was to systematically massacre every single one of them. The very possibility of something like this occurring had always lingered over them, but that was why Task Force 141 had been selected for the role in the first place. Acting without pause or mercy was what they did best

"Shit, we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way!" Captain Price announced with a bellow. "Weapons free! You know what to do, leave none alive!"

"_Yes sir!" _

Nobody needed to be told twice. Out of a blind sense of need to prove his worth Kirshov led the charge; his sheer adrenaline-fuelled pace difficult for anyone else to match. By the time he had reached the enemy forces position he had put so much distance between him and the fastest of the rest of the Task Force that it was no longer possible for them to provide him with covering fire. But sensible thoughts of tactics or even his own mortality weren't going to slow him down now. Makarov was one of these men ahead of him, and he wasn't going to stop shooting until he reached the man himself. The first he came across was well armed and equipped but uselessly fumbling about, briefly blinded and shell-shocked by the force of the fuel dump explosion, but it would only be a matter of moments before this soldier would no longer be quite so helpless and revert straight back to the usual Slavic killing machine. Raising his rifle, Kirshov knew what to do. Put this wretch into the ground straight away and repeat the same to everyone else.

Only he never got the opportunity to do so. In his bloodthirsty exuberance, Kirshov had neglected and just plain ignored every primal survival instinct as well as those that had been hammered into his psyche by his torturous training regime, his subconscious telling him to stay with his group and to carry out his mission in a way that would not only be fast, ruthless and clinical but also rational and competent. The lack of Davidenko to hold him back, and being this close to killing Makarov, had enticed Kirshov away from his better judiciousness and into becoming completely oblivious to the fact that he had already been outflanked, and was now very much in harm's way.

Captain Lorvovsky had been wise to stay out of sight but was still very much hampered by his disorientation, his blurred sight returning but not to the level where he could take the risk of opening fire at Makarov's attacker without the possibility of him missing the important shot. Instead, he was left with no option but to run up and throw himself at Kirshov in a flying tackle, sending the FSB Lieutenant crashing into the concrete paving behind him. His eyes wide and stunned, the impact seemingly brought Kirshov back to reality, giving him a true indication of how reckless and blind his run into the hornet's nest had truly been. Now he had a man bigger than himself lashing out towards his throat with a combat knife, and very little time for any sort of reaction.

Kirshov grabbed at the wrist of the Black Star man's knife-wielding hand at just the right moment, allowing him the opportunity to headbutt Lorvovsky as hard as physically possible, the metal mount for the night-vision goggles fitted to his helmet making contact with the Captain's unprotected forehead with a resounding crack, throwing Lorvovsky onto his back with a groan of agonizing pain. Against most other combatants the fight would have already been over, Kirshov now left with nothing else to do than deal the killer blow. But Lorvovsky was not going out so easily, kicking out with both legs into Kirshov's abdomen as the FSB man got to his feet, knocking Marki right back down and turning the fight back to the Ultranationalist's advantage. Even with the severe pain that seared through his head Lorvovsky knew he could still escape, and he snapped his attention back to the knife he had dropped, which now lay only a few tentative inches from his grasp, but closer still to the hands of Kirshov.

Having made his way to cover but still only meters away from where he was before, Makarov was unsure of what to do next. He wasn't usually the kind to take the risk to leave no man behind, but Captain Lorvovsky's intervention had saved his life, and while the ongoing struggle had gifted him the perfect opportunity to make his break for freedom, for once he felt increasingly compelled to repay the favor. If Klossovsky had truly betrayed him, he was now left with very few allies with any kind of power, and even if he hadn't the Black Stars were still the only men on his side whose dedication was absolutely unquestionable. Makarov made up his mind, taking the personal risk to break from cover to provide assistance. All around him the rest of his men were desperately locked down and focused on their own personal fight for survival, so as Makarov readied his rifle he was at least very much in the knowledge that he was the only one who had the ability to step in.

The shot would have no margin for error, even for a man with such fine special forces-honed marksmanship skills as Makarov. As Kirshov indeed ended up beating Lorvovsky to the blade, he at least had some comfort to take in the fact that his decision had been the correct one. He lined his vision up with his rifle's iron sight, the rest of the attackers moved ever closer, and Makarov had to accept the fact that there was no luxury of waiting for the perfect moment to shoot. As he approached, both Kirshov and Lorvovsky had become so embroiled in their close quarters combat that neither even detected of his existence. That was, until the very moment he opened fire.

He found his target, but not without very nearly going through Lorvovsky first, the Black Star team leader moving his right arm to parry Kirshov's wild lash at his throat at precisely the right moment, resulting in the bullet travelling just below the his right forearm, barely touching the loose fabric of his jacket sleeve as the high-velocity projectile continued onwards into the top of Kirshov's chest, followed closely by a second. The powerful rounds made light work of the FSB officer's light assault vest, which was made more for speed and maneuverability than the heavy armor available, and he roared out helplessly, stumbling backwards as two gluts of crimson erupted from his back. However, in a move that surprised even Makarov, Kirshov somehow managed to remain standing, and then even more surprisingly, he used up what remained of his rapidly depleting strength to leap at the still shell-shocked Lorvovsky, driving his knife as deep as he possibly could into the Captain's neck, staring the Black Star hard in his petrified, saucer-like eyes before showing a bloody, triumphant smile as he violently drove the blade across in a horizontal motion. One last intervening salvo of lead from Makarov brought the duel to its curtain call, and both Kirshov and Lorvovsky finally fell down together.

* * *

Even when out of sight and out of reach, the final fate of Lieutenant Marki Kirshov was very much evident to those that had fought by his side, who had now broken up into two teams. The young man had accomplished what he had set out to do, and that was delay the escape of Makarov and his men as much as he could, and while he hadn't quite managed to kill the man himself, by leaving him and his men cut off and confused he had made it a damn sight more likely that one of those who remained would finish what he started.

Right now Captain John Price was in his element. Makarov was now weakened and on the run, unsure who was still on his side other than his most very dedicated. Make no mistake, it would still be tough, and with the spectral silhouette of the nuclear submarine still looming large in the dock Price had to make sure Makarov was dead before he had any chance to use it as his final card, either simply as a method of escape or in a ghastly worst case scenario, utilized whatever ordnance was on board to launch a last-gasp attack that would ensure no side belonging to any country would be the victor in this war.

The Black Star operatives he was fighting against were some of the toughest, skilled and most fanatical warriors on the planet, and they had strength in numbers over the 141. But they had met more than their match in Price, who fought against them like a force of nature, cutting the extremists down one by one before most of them even had the chance to fire a single shot. Fighting his way through an entire army to reach just one man was what Price did better than anyone, and he had one hell of a track record to back that accolade up. With MacTavish and Kamarov following closely in his footsteps and laying down a seemingly endless blaze of automatic supporting fire, the Captain for once felt unstoppable, and knew it would only be a matter of time until he reached the man himself.

And then he saw him.

There was nothing distinguishing the individual that caught Price's attention from the rest of his soldiers, the same heavy snow gear veiling his unmistakable features, and nothing to suggest he was in any way the team leader of the group. There was just something about the air surrounding this man that stood him out from the rest, a dark aura that caused the hairs on Price's neck to stand on end, drying his throat and chilling his spine. The SAS veteran had fought countless battles, but he had only felt an adrenaline rush this intense a few times before in his career. This one was right up there with observing Zakhaev's weapons exchange in the ghostly shadow of the Chernobyl power plant through the scope of his .50 caliber sniper rifle, or fighting through the smoke, ash and bullets of a burning Azerbaijani village in order to take down Khaled Al-Asad, the man whose allegiance with the Ultranationalists had resulted in the nuclear massacre of the invading United States Marine Corps. It even surpassed saving his best friend from certain death at the receiving end of traitorous General Shepherd's revolver, sparing MacTavish from the same grisly fate Gary Sanderson and Simon Riley had met only hours earlier in the grounds of the Russian safehouse. Somehow, he just knew he had Vladimir Makarov in his line of sight, but tauntingly out of range. Then he saw the man that stood beside him. Unlike Makarov, this one was clearly identifiable with a single glance. It was the submarine captain.

"_This is Price! I've got a positive ID on Makarov! Repeat, positive ID on the HVT! He's going to make a move for that submarine, cover me so I can make sure he doesn't get the chance!"_

It takes a lot to unnerve a professional sniper to the point where his blood runs cold, but Captain Price did a sterling job doing precisely that on Toad with nothing more than a few choice words. The Marine froze on the spot, almost stumbling to his knees as his breathing started to become more labored, the usual firm grip he had on his trusty M24 rifle becoming decidedly shaky in his hands. Ahead of him, Ozone, who had been acting as the second team's point man, immediately sensed the rising disquiet and halted, looking back with of more than a hint of concern for his friend, an expression which was mirrored almost perfectly by both Archer and Monotova who followed behind, the latter of which who had been desperately but fruitlessly attempting to contact Kirshov on the radio, but now had far, far more to worry about.

"Toad, you alright, mate?" Archer said, but receiving no reply, not even a nod.

"Lightning doesn't strike twice, kid." Ozone stated. "You gotta believe me, Price wants that bastard dead just as much as any of us do. He wouldn't lie about identifying him just to get his hands on that sub. He's unconventional, yes, but not insane."

Still no reply.

"He's right, Toad!" Natasha pleaded, moving to face Toad but only getting a blank stare in return, as if he was looking right through her. "Please listen to us. Please. We have a real chance here, but we can't do this unless we have you with us."

"We can't." Archer added. "Come on Marine, you don't really want it to be me who gets to take that shot, do you?"

Finally, Toad broke from his trance and nodded respectfully at Archer, a first sign that he seemed to be appearing to come around.

"I guess not." The Marine muttered, managing the faintest of smiles. "Alright, I'm ready. But if any funny shit goes on down there-"

"It won't." Ozone interrupted. "Just worry about anything like that when…if it happens, alright? In the mean time, I'm hoping you're in the right mindset for killing this son of a bitch."

"Oh, don't you worry 'bout that, Ozone." Toad said darkly, his eyes turning from anxious and apprehensive to fierce, burning and incensed. "Mark my words, he's gonna fuckin' die."

"Good." The Canadian replied, turning to rejoin the battle, eager to waste no more precious time than he had already. "Let's move it, 141, they won't wait around forever!"

"Atta boy." Archer said, bumping Toad on the shoulder with his fist as he passed by. "This is what it's all about, man. Let's do this."

While the men seemed at least moderately confident in what Toad had said, the American's choice of words had only worked to further Natasha Monotova's trepidation towards Toad's worsening state. Unlike the others, she had endured almost endless hours of mental training at the FSB's elite academy in order to understand the mindset of people, how they thought, what made them tick, what it was that caused the rot in a man's mind that could lose what was once a steadfast and loyal ally to the clutches of traitorousness. It was this knowledge that not only helped her outsmart her enemies, but it could also be used to save her friends from the unseen and all to ignored enemy of mental degradation. Bizarre as she found it, and despite them being near-polar opposites, Natasha had grown incredibly fond of Toad since they had first met, and she wasn't about to let the rot take him. Not now, and not without a fight.

"S-So, Toad." She stuttered. "Who is it that you're going to kill, then?"

"I haven't decided yet."


	40. Reunion

Roman Klossovsky had nothing left to do but run. He ran for his life as the bullets flew, unknowing of where he was running to, or even if any of Makarov's men had actually managed to break from the fight to give chase. He had known of Commander Redinova's defection, but he was otherwise blind to what she had been truly planning and while he was oblivious what had caused to explosion, he didn't have enough of a death wish to try and convince an angered Makarov that he was not a traitor, and even if the crew of the Loyalist submarine _Kalyazin_ still remained by his side, which was not entirely certain, he did not exactly savor the thought of an all-out battle. All he knew for definite now was he had to get the hell out of there, and far away from Murmansk as fast as physically possible.

With his whole operation now compromised, Roman berated himself for not taking the perfect opportunity to neatly put a bullet through Makarov's head when he still had the chance, and over the last few days he had been given many. But until now he had the faint hope of finding some sort of redemption for his old Vympel comrade, and even though Makarov had become a Ultranationalist psychopath, he was still a very useable and influential Psychopath, with a equal if not greater hatred for the man in the seat of power. Even if he had attempted an assassination, with the constant watch of Anatoly and Mikhail every feasible scenario would have also ended in his own death. To Klossovsky, that would have been no victory, as whether they liked it or not the Loyalists still needed somebody to be loyal to, now more than ever. They might be stronger, but a disorganized group with no apparent structure of leadership could never take down the likes of Boris Vorshevsky, no matter how many dollars the Americans pumped into their cause, nor how many foreign Special Forces advisors they send over to assist in the fight. This was the case even more so now Makarov, with his extra support and first-hand knowledge of Vorshevsky's way of thinking was out of the picture. The Loyalists needed a strong leader. It was time for Roman Klossovsky to return.

But first he needed to survive. Easier said than done, when you have the best warriors all the rival factions could possibly throw at you on your tail and out for your blood at once. It had been a fair while since he had seen combat quite like this, but the reflexes and instincts of a Soviet Vympel Group officer die hard, and three Black Star soldiers had already paid the price for underestimating the seemingly feeble, aging politician. Now the gunfire, while still deafeningly loud, was getting further behind him, Klossovsky knew he couldn't let his guard down just yet. All around him the shadows of the western commandos cast their macabre puppet show against the murkily illuminated walls of the container yard, the war drums of pounding boots and the echoes of indistinct whispers only adding further to the surrealistic atmosphere. All he had to do was keep hidden, and stay out of their way. That was, until one figure jumped out from the blackness and directly into the path between him and freedom.

As it turned out, this man was equally surprised by the other's presence, jumping back and allowing Klossovsky the ideal window to draw first. Under any other circumstance, there would have been a short burst of fire, and the target would be dead. But a sixth sense kept the former president's finger off the trigger momentarily; as he quickly realized just who it was exactly that he was staring at down his sights.

"Kamarov? Is that you, Kamarov?"

The Loyalist froze on the spot at first, awe-struck and unsure whether the man who was still technically his leader was going to open fire on him or not. Everything he thought he once knew had changed over the course of the last few days, and now he didn't know who the man standing in front of him, the man he had fought alongside in the days of the Soviet Union, the man he had killed for without question once he had gained power and the man he had striven so hard to put back in his rightful seat, really was. Roman Klossovsky's initial hesitance to fire seemed to suggest that he didn't really know exactly who he was either.

"Klossovsky?" Kamarov gasped, his voice merely a whisper. "...I was hoping to meet you. One last time."

* * *

Only a few steps ahead of them, Price and MacTavish were yet to notice the sudden absence of their Russian friend from the firefight. Even if they had, there was no going back now as they charged down the dock, the gangway to the steel colossus now only paces away from their position, and that meant Makarov himself was even closer, now out of sight but surely only a matter of time before that all changed. While those few feet sounded like a luxuriously short distance to go, covering that ground was made somewhat more laborious by the sheer amount of fanatical and well-armed terrorists that swarmed the entire area, each firing their automatic weapons rabidly at anything that didn't resemble one of their own. Undaunted by this, Price continued forward into the gloom as he and MacTavish picked off more and more of Makarov's men, each with careful three-round bursts while an intense fusillade of protective covering fire from Ozone's team ensured that they could not be outflanked along the way.

It seemed as if the Ultranationalist Brotherhood of the Black Star, as fearless, fervent and powerful as they were, simply had no answer to the onslaught brought upon them by just two SAS Captains and their team. But Viktor and Anatoly, Makarov's most loyal servants, had other ideas. Over the years Makarov had told them both many tales about his old foes, in a way revering what were his mortal enemies for their skill, courage and almost impossible level of survivability against the odds. But he knew the day where he would be pitted against them would inevitably come, the day where only the strongest on either side would exploit the weaknesses of the other to survive, the day that right now dawned upon them. Makarov was as sure as possibly could be that he knew Price's ways, and how he could manipulate his flaws to somehow ensure victory in his darkest hour.

Given the order to prevent Price from reaching the submarine, Viktor bowed one final time to his master, knowing full well that the man who had taken him under his wing as his protégé, recognizing and picking out his talent and dedication since his early days in Zakhaev's ranks, was now sending him to his almost certain death. Such gnawing thoughts of impending mortality would weaken most men but for Viktor, there was no other place on earth he would rather be. Fighting and dying to protect what he truly believed in, and for what he had already sacrificed every last shred of his own humanity for was in his eyes, a far better destiny than idly standing by while everything he strived for crashed down around him, all just so he could preserve his own pitiful life. He had wasted far too much time recently trotting around the Middle East, doing next to nothing in what turned out to be a completely unprofitable charade with Klossovsky. It had been far, far too long since he had the chance to spread some blood.

As he looked over as his ever-present wingman Anatoly, Viktor knew that while the more visibly emotional man would be rightfully nervous about his eventual fate, deep down he thought exactly the same way about it.

"Don't worry, Makarov, we'll stop them." Anatoly said waveringly as he prepared to join the skirmish. "You just keep yourself alive."

"I'll try my best." Makarov replied, feigning a smile. "Best of luck. May God be on your side."

"I damn hope he is." Viktor said. "I guess we'll find out."

As the two moved on, disappearing into the ranks of the rest of the Brotherhood, Makarov couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge of sentiment at leaving them behind after all they had been through, all they had given for their country, their cause and their people. One day he knew people would see them as the heroes and patriots that they truly were, and if the stakes had been lower, he would have been honored and delighted to go with them, _once more onto the breach_. These reflections were not shared by Zhirkov, the man next to him and the Captain of the _Kalyazin. _He knew that while the work of Makarov's men had bought them both some valuable time, but it was still time that was very much borrowed, and was running out much faster than it could be given to them. Nothing was going to change the fact that eventually making a break from cover for the hatch in the middle of this firestorm was going to be practically suicidal, but it was still no less so than staying put and apathetically waiting for death to come to them the easy way.

Quickly, the Captain turned to Makarov. "Looks like this is our chance. I don't like this, but it's not like either of us have anything resembling a choice in this."

"I agree. I don't care with whom where your loyalties may lie, Captain, but we both have to remove Vorshevsky as soon as we can, no matter what the cost. I just hope we're not already too late."

"We'll discover the answer before too long. It's only a matter of time."


	41. Once Upon a Time in Russia

**AN**: Sorry for the delay with this chapter, it was mainly due to E3! But thanks as always to all my readers and reviewers.

Special thanks are also in order to UrgentOrange for all the reviews and feedback, and especially for the shout-out given to my own story. UrgentOrange's **Thanatos Denied** is really superb work and I highly recommend you read it.

* * *

Two men stood face to face in the faltering, dusky light that the overhead lamps just about provided them, the faces of both individuals looking equally unwavering on the surface but acting only to disguise the jangled nerves beneath their skin, their guns drawn and ready but the consciences controlling the weapons completely unsure of what action to take next. For an instant, Kamarov and Roman Klossovsky found themselves in the one position neither of them ever thought they would ever see themselves in, and that was in a standoff with one another. The two Russians stood face to face, both with their rifles aimed at the head of the other and both saying precisely nothing, breathing deeply as they waited for the other to pluck up the courage to break the ice, either with a few careful words or a small flurry of automatic gunfire. If neither of them acted soon enough, someone else would, and depending on their faction and the itchiness of their finger trigger, could take the liberty to neutralize them both themselves. Finally, after those short seconds that seemed trapped in unbearable timelessness, it was the former president that conceded, slowly lowering his weapon before rather tentatively raising his hands above his head.

"I was never going to shoot you, Kamarov." He said. "You always were my most loyal servant. I would perfectly understand, Anton, if you do not wish to repay me the same favor. But please-"

"Just what is this?" Kamarov grimaced at hearing his actual name for the first time in what had to have been years, still not quite ready to stand down and listen to one of the few people alive who actually knew of it just yet. "Why? After all we've done over the years, all we've endured, why are you doing this to me now?'

For Anton Kamarov, it was most apparent that he now had another conflict to deal with, but this time it was with his very own morality. Klossovsky, by all accounts, was now his enemy, a man who had not only turned his back on everything his followers had done for him over their years of service and sacrifice, but had also betrayed them in the worst way imaginable, walking willingly into extremist Ultranationalist clutches and partnering up with the most vile and despicable of them all. Even if there was a valid reason for what he had done, of which Kamarov couldn't even begin to fathom, there was nothing that could stop Klossovsky being relegated to nothing more than just another target to be destroyed. But Kamarov still called himself a Loyalist for a reason, and simply couldn't do the deed without at the very least listening to the man first. Klossovsky had always been a very complicated person, with even more complicated motives and methods. The only person who could truly tell what he was thinking was the man himself

"Lower your weapon please." Klossovsky said, his unflagging tone of voice still sounding as if he was issuing more of an order to Kamarov than pleading. "You'll get a detailed explanation. I owe you that much at least. But I don't really consider this place ideal for a sit-down, do you?"

"Agreed." Kamarov yielded, keeping his rifle firm in his hands as he moved, even if it now wasn't quite aimed towards the forehead of his one-time luminary. "I'll get you out as one last favor, but I just can't leave my team behind. Like it or not they're not going to show your new best friend a shred of mercy. And like it or not, I'm going to help them."

"Makarov, my friend?" Klossovsky smiled faintly at what he must have been considering naivety on Kamarov's part. "On the contrary, Anton. But I'm not the only one who has used Makarov's knowledge for one's own personal gain. Why don't you ask your friend Price? Look, I'm afraid you just don't understand the picture yet, there's no way you could have. Oh, but you will, and sooner that you think."

"I think it would be better if I have some kind of understanding straight away."

"Then contact Raptor. He'll enlighten you."

Ah, Raptor. Anton Kamarov might not have been the thinking type, but he was no petty idiot. He knew that there was far more to the American plan than what they had been letting on, and now it was crystal clear that he hadn't even scratched the surface of the intentions the suited little man had, playing every possible angle while influencing every possible faction from the comfort of his desk on the aircraft carrier. If Klossovsky was in his pocket, just about anyone else could be. There was little doubt the man was exceptionally smart, but playing puppet master with people like this also meant playing with a lot of fire.

_You get burned doing this and it won't just be you who gets scarred. _Kamarov thought as for a moment, he mulled over the possibility that the bizarre alliance of Klossovsky and Makarov had not been the brainchild a Russian mind after all, nor that of Commander Davidenko. No, it all seemed far more likely now that at the very least one of them had some very good influencing along the line from that one American man. The man he now had to speak to.

* * *

Commander Davidenko scratched away at his neck, a sign of rare visible neuroticism at having spent far more time than he was comfortable with out of the battle zone. Even at his distance the shots, the shouts and the screams of his people and those they were fighting hauntingly close, the helpless, nauseous sensation of unknowing about who on either side was still alive, and the inability to do anything about it was to him, a feeling far worse than the dread of the front line, where certain death was a mere ill-placed step away from you. At least there he had some familiarity in the situation, and the fate of himself and those who followed him would be at least partially under his control.

Redinova, on the other hand, was clearly reveling in the whole nightmare, the palms of her hands pressed up against the window as she gazed out, transfixed at the battle developing below. The further Makarov's men became locked down by the Task Force, the further she smiled, knowing full well that right now the man himself was being backed into a corner and that in his current position and his knowledge of just what was at stake, he wasn't going to be quite so willing to sacrifice himself. He was going to have to make a bargaining attempt sooner or later, and Raptor was going to force Price and the others to listen in whether they liked it or not.

"You're really missing out here, Davidenko." She said, while making doubly sure her tone was in no way veiling her genuine, twisted exhilaration. "Are you sure you don't want to see the show? There's a pair of binoculars in the top drawer of the desk."

"I'm going to have to decline on that, Valentina." Davidenko replied as he turned his head away, careful not put too much emotion on display that would indulge her with his displeasure any more than he already was. "No, there's more than enough voyeurism going on in this room for my liking already. But thank you."

"Yet you haven't departed to join your comrades in what will probably be the most important battle they may ever fight, and you know what? I think I know why, and it's not because you secretly enjoy my company."

"You know full well why I remain here, and it's not by my choosing. But you of all people should be aware that I have gone against orders before. Especially if I consider certain supposedly allied individuals a risk to the whole operation."

Commander Davidenko was not the kind of man to casually bluff about his past, and his harsh words made it more than obvious that he was reaching the end of his tether. He was without doubt a patient man, exceptionally so, but even he was finding himself dangerously close to his limits, the feelings of discomfort and agitation at his situation quickly being replaced by anger at how his people were fighting and dying out there without him, and especially at how it was evident that all Raptor wanted him to do while this happened was to sit and watch as a unwilling spectator to his master plan.

However, keeping Davidenko in place was going to be a job easier said than done, and Redinova was more than a little aware of this. She turned away from watching the fight for the time being to take a seat at her desk, her deeply ingrained mindset of etiquette still making sure that she placed herself carefully and gracefully on the large leather chair. Crossing her arms and looking her opposite number straight in his aggressive, light grey eyes, Redinova told herself that the time for toying with her fellow Commander was now over, and that now she had to convince this man to be on her side.

"I understand why you feel the need to watch over me like this." She nodded. "I must admit, all my government's mortal enemies converging on one place at the same time? Indeed, it is the most tempting of contemplations. But what rewards Vorshevsky may promise me for continuous loyalty pale in comparison to what the Americans have put on the table, not to mention that their ultimate vision for the future is much more to all of our liking."

"That is, provided that all works out as it should" Davidenko sighed in frustration, still far from convinced by anything he had heard. "Which you'll never be able to guarantee from a nice comfortable room like this. Why don't we go out and join in, seeing how lovely the weather is."

"You shouldn't doubt your people, they are very capable." Valentina persisted. "Hell, I should know, I've seen just what they can do first hand. I am staying here because that is what I have been ordered to do. Until I hear anything, I must keep you here with me and ensure everything goes as close to the plan as possible."

Davidenko scowled at the blind arrogance displayed not only by Redinova, but also but his own Task Force commanding officers, especially that one man who seemed to wish to play some sort of meddling international peacemaker as well as prepare for running the brave new world. Even so, Raptor was, in Davidenko's eyes at least, a comparatively lesser evil when his archrivals included the likes of Vorshevsky and Makarov, and any future with them in the ascendancy was far too grim to even begin thinking about. Therefore he would have to follow his orders for now, but that didn't mean he had to do it to the letter. In his mind it was still his world, his rules.

"So this is what he's told you?" He snapped. "And by the plan, you mean we're just going to stand idly by and let the 'insignificant' slaughter one another, until only those our betters consider important enough to survive will be forced to accept some kind of stalemate, while those shysters and manipulators negotiate the terms of their agreement?"

"Well, isn't that how it always is?" Redinova said sharply. "But ah, yes, that's exactly how it will pan out. Ideally it'll happen without too many unnecessary casualties of course. You know I understand why you feel the way you do, but-"

"_Raptor, this is Kamarov_!" The hurried, exasperated voice of the Loyalist suddenly burst from Commander Redinova's own radio, which had been purposefully left on full volume for her guest to hear, while Davidenko's own headset remained ominously silent. If Valentina had been telling the truth about just a single thing, it was that she had some kind of direct communication with the American. "_I have found Klossovsky, he's instructed me to speak with you on this secure channel. Hopefully you can hear me_."

"_Oh, I hear you, Kamarov."_ Raptor answered in his typically calm, clipped fashion. _"Tell me, where are the others?"_

"_The rest are dealing with Makarov's forces as we speak. At the moment, it's just me and Klossovsky, but we can't really stay still for much longer."_

"_Understood, Kamarov."_ Raptor said. _"Head away from the fight for now, soldier. You and Klossovsky need to make your way towards the central command tower of the base. There you'll meet up with Davidenko…as well as Commander Redinova."_

"_Wait, what the fuck?" _

The pitch of Kamarov's voice went up quite a few levels in his surprise, causing Redinova to look away and cover her mouth, trying to mask her failed attempts to fight back her laughter. Even Davidenko couldn't help but smile slightly, mainly at the peculiarity of the whole turn of events.

"_Yes, I know you two have quite the past, but please remember to show some kind of restraint towards one of my finest double agents."_ Raptor insisted. _"She and Davidenko should know you're coming by now."_

"Indeed we do."

* * *

Much as Viktor had anticipated, the aftermath of the explosion and the ambush had caused a sizeable amount of Captain Zhirkov's men to turn on Makarov and their commanding officer in the hope of preventing their escape, as well as covering that of the one man they truly followed, Roman Klossovsky. In a way, he had to respect these men, none of which allowing their lack of any decent weapons or equipment, disorganization in the face of their situation and an average age of what could have only been about twenty-five to standing in the way of their sheer bravery. It was blind, dumb bravery, but it was still something to be applauded. That being said, no matter how courageous they were they were also now another barrier in the path of Viktor and the rest of the Black Stars. But barriers can be cleared, and the cold, vicious Ultranationalist intended to get that little inconvenience out of the way as quickly as he possibly could.

If the Navy Loyalists were ill equipped, Viktor and his three squadmates had it even worse, and while Lorvovsky's men at least had heavy body armor, lethal and non-lethal grenades and a decent supply of ammunition, he did not. An early-model Glock 19 on his thigh holster, a knife in a sheath on his right arm and a very well-used example of a Norinco Type 82S, a Chinese-built bullpup variant of the venerable AK-47 in his hands, Viktor would have been forgiven for thinking that the odds were somewhat stacked against him. But to him, backup and a choice of weapons were nothing more than a few exuberant luxuries.

He'd spent enough time in his career as a security operative for the spectral Ministry of Defense Institute 22 to know just about every way possible to take down the enemy, no matter what the scenario was, and no matter what your inventory was. This was a part of his past not even Makarov himself was aware of, and even though Viktor never discovered what went on behind those armored doors deep below the compound at the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan, the Institute had taken it upon themselves to train their guards, who were already specially chosen ex-Alpha and Vympel soldiers, to a level beyond anything the Military or KGB had done before. It left Viktor fearless, considerably dehumanized and just short of morally bankrupt, even compared to the former Spetsnaz extremist types he surrounded himself with. But it also made him the perfect man for a moment like this.

As bolted his way along the length of one the huge freight containers that made the port a bewildering maze of iron and steel, the three Black Stars broke away on Viktor's insistence, heading down the right flank while he took to the left. It was an order that was based off of a hunch and one that proved to work very well in their favor, as it was revealed that a group of four Loyalist sailors had taken up a defensive position in a gap between two of the containers, and seeing the Brotherhood commandos charging towards them with rifles blazing, turned to return fire, thus becoming far too absorbed to notice Viktor's slinking approach.

It took him little time to reach the first Loyalist, who was busy bellowing orders left and right at his men despite being his insignia showing him to be the lowly equivalent of an E-3 Seaman. The young sailor was so preoccupied playing officer, in fact, that he failed to notice any presence behind him until just before the moment Viktor wrapped his left arm across his neck, simultaneously snatching the Yarygin service pistol from the writhing, choking man's holster with his free right hand. _Perfect_, Viktor thought. He didn't want to waste any of his own precious ammunition on these relative rookies, not when there were much more worthy adversaries in the form of Task Force 141 waiting out there in the twilight. As for the Loyalists, it was all over in a matter of seconds, Viktor firing three shots in such quick succession that only one of his targets had enough time to shift his eyes in the general direction of his killer before the contents of his skull were sprayed in a reddish smear across the container doors behind him. As the three sailors buckled to the ground, Viktor decided to loosen his grip on the first slightly, allowing his victim to take one sharp intake of breath, but not quite enough time to begin to scream before the barrel of the Yarygin was jammed right into the back of his head and the trigger was pulled.

A quick glance right as he nonchalantly discarded both body and weapon to the ground showed identical looks of bitter disappointment on the faces of the rest of his squad, all who had been hoping for a bit more of a firefight, not to mention adding a few more easy scores to their tally only to have one man come along and spoil all their fun.

"Fear not, Comrades, your time will come." Viktor called out. "Save it for the Americans!"

Viktor then turned back to continue on his way, and had he done so a moment later, would have been dead before he even knew what hit him. He would also already be dead if he did not still have the kind of reflexes the men from Baikonur had hammered, nigh on tortured into them during their training. Instead he somehow managed to get a grip on the forearm of a Naval Infantryman, the Russian answer to the Marine, just before he plunged his knife into his neck. The blade still managed to nick the top of the hammer and sickle, one of the many tattoos that hinted at the canvas his body had become, and Viktor glanced down at the cold steel, giving a small, malevolent smirk at the tiny spherical drop of blood that that been drawn. _A most valiant effort, _he thought, just as his eyes flashed back to the Infantryman's, who was distinctly less composed as he still desperately tried to get the knife in just that little bit further. It had indeed been a valiant effort, but not quite good enough to step across that one fine line that always stands between besting your enemy and getting yourself killed.

The Black Star team knew full well that Viktor was under attack, but none of them felt any sort of urge to intervene. Not out of spite or hatred towards Makarov's right hand man, but simply because it wasn't necessary. As they stared out of awe at how he dealt with the Infantryman, the Brotherhood, none of which had anything less than decades of Special Forces experience, felt like even they could learn a thing or two from watching Viktor doing what he did best. It was all over in a matter of seconds, as he, like any master of his art always does, made it all look effortless.

Once again he took comfort in not having to waste any of his own weaponry, but Viktor severely chastised himself for letting his guard down so badly that only blind luck had saved his life, and it was a simple grunt that had so nearly taken it. Perhaps he had allowed himself to become arrogant, or maybe it was just his swiftly approaching middle age betraying his heightened senses. Nevertheless, with those far more potent foreign operatives out there on the board he knew he was going to have to significantly up his game if he had any hope whatsoever at surviving, and more importantly, succeeding at his objective. He couldn't just rely on Anatoly's team to get it done. But it was not only he who had faltered, as in their willingness to stand and be mere spectators to his actions, Viktor's team had neglected all the signs of an incoming threat, a threat that stayed next to silent right up until it opened fire only a few steps from their position. Hearing the sounds of his allies being annihilated with such merciless ease, Viktor wasn't shocked, but was most relieved. Task Force 141 had finally come to him, and now his work was really about to start.


	42. Bird of Prey

**A/N: Once again I must apologize for another severely delayed chapter of MW:R, as this time my excuse is I'd been giving serious consideration to putting it on hiatus until I knew the actual, canon ending of the MW series, and seeing that this is now a work of AU fiction, I didn't want any unintentional parallels. Instead, I will do my damnedest to finish the fight before November,**

**I thank all my truly fantastic readers and reviewers for their patience and support, and I also give thanks to the COD Wiki, as without them I would have missed countless plot, character, location and equipment intricacies despite my best attempts.**

**Disclaimer: Of course I don't own Call Of Duty or Modern Warfare or anything in any way related to these franchises, Activision/Infinity Ward/Sledgehammer does.  
**

* * *

As the last fragments from the widow cascaded down upon his bruised and beaten body, Anatoly fought the pulsing barbs of pain to bring himself to his knees, well in the knowledge that whatever he did next was almost certainly going to be his final, futile attempt at resistance. He had known just how smart these men from the Task Force were going to be, but nothing could have readied him or his squad for the kind of destruction that only two men could wreak upon them, dissecting a team of Makarov's most skilled as if they were naught but a posse of ambitious but incompetent amateurs. In Anatoly's case it didn't take masterful powers of deduction to guess just which two individuals his attackers were. He had observed the wrath of Captains Price and MacTavish with his own eyes back in the airplane graveyard in Afghanistan, and while the Black Stars had suffered considerable casualties that day, too, it was General Shepherd's Shadow Company that were the main recipient of the full unstoppable brunt of unpurified, unrelenting revenge.

Back then he was more than thankful for their existence, as without such intervention he, Makarov and Viktor would have never had a hope in hell of making it out of the American ambush alive, not to mention that their little exchange of information resulted in the death of the man who had devoted himself to tearing the world apart in his personal, sociopathic mission to rid the world of the legacy of Zakhaev, no matter who he betrayed in the process. Alas, just as Makarov had foreseen at the time, it was an impossible stalemate between two sides that was never going to last. With Shepherd now long dead and buried with false military honors, it now meant they now had only each other's throats to go for, and it was Anatoly that would be first to pay the price. At least it seemed apparent that the Task Force men would at least repay the favors he had somewhat inadvertently done for them that day in the disposal yard with a vaguely honorable death.

Whichever of the two it was that had shown such a masterful display of close quarters combat in disarming Makarov's disciple now stood over him, apparently ready to make Anatoly pay for his failures on the battlefield with a swift, befitting execution, a fate the Russian accepted in his heart far more than continuing to live on as a coward. The SAS man, on the other hand, did not see things in such a simple fashion, and had other, very different ideas regarding the fate of his foe.

Kneeling down, the Briton solidly clasped his left hand around Anatoly's neck and looked down with contempt at his quarry. Anatoly's distinctive tattoos were concealed under the layers of dried blood and dirt that smothered his bruised and battered face, yet as the man from The Regiment forcibly turned the Russian's face to look at him dead in his burning blue eyes, a malice-fuelled smirk confirmed that he still managed to be very much recognizable. Anatoly was in a way very lucky to be the distinctive man that he was, as if not the Task Force men would not have been quite so concerned with just whom they had been shooting at.

"Well, look who it is." The SAS man said, his hoarse yet softly spoken Scottish brogue tipped with more than a whisper of reserved menace. "Yeah, I know who you are, Anatoly. And I think you know who I am too, don't you?"

"MacTavish." Anatoly acknowledged weakly. "Makarov spoke of you quite…frequently. He told me you a part…a part of the team that killed Zakhaev."

"Oh, more than that." The second and markedly older of the two men, whose voice he immediately recognized as Captain Price himself, said. "You're speaking to the very man who pulled the trigger on that particular bastard."

"Then I guess it is really you, MacTavish, that I should be thanking for making all of this possible." Anatoly said, a pained but taunting smile flickering across his face. "You…you see what the Russian people see him as today, don't you? In death, you made him something you can't truly become while still amongst the living. And now you come here to make the same mistake all over again."

"Perhaps. But who says we're going to kill Makarov?"

"Right, because after all you've been through, you're not going to claim your prize?' Anatoly gibed. "Regardless, the men who issue your orders wish you to slay the beast. Because even after all they did to you, you went crawling back, like a bitch-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Soap snapped, driving a furious left hook into Anatoly's jaw. It was not enough to cause him any further serious injury, but was more than necessary to leave the man, who was already in chronic pain, reeling as he slumped back to the ground.

"_Ublyudok!_" The Russian sneered, pausing to take a sharp, wheezy breath before violently retching forwards, spitting a large glob of deep crimson blood onto the concrete by MacTavish's boots.

"What the fuck is it you want?" He continued, messily wiping across his mouth with his sleeve "To torture me before you kill me? I know you two especially like that sort of shit."

"Not what I was planning today." Soap said, gripping Anatoly by his assault vest, pulling him closer while forming another fist with his right hand. "But arrangements can always be made..."

"Not right now, Soap." Price calmly commanded, a move that caught MacTavish by complete and utter surprise. His mentor was certainly not known for being the type that looked down on unnecessary brutishness towards the enemy, far from it. But on this occasion Price was very much in the right to order restraint, even if it did earn a look of bitter dissatisfaction from the Scotsman.

The Captain then took another couple of steps forward, crouching down beside Soap and made sure that he made direct eye contact with Anatoly, much as the Ultranationalist made his best attempts to avoid his glare. While MacTavish got back up and stood guard, Price then proceeded to produce a radio and headset he had taken earlier from one of the fallen Black Star men, only getting a weary, drawn out sigh from a man who knew exactly what his foe was planning as a response.

"We're going to need to talk to your boss, mate." Price said. "If he's still alive."

"Oh, I'm sorry Captain." Anatoly hissed, finally looking back at him. "Unhappy with the service are we?"

Price didn't gratify him with an answer. Instead, he moved on to trying to contact the one man he really wanted to talk to. The Ultranationalist radio chatter was frantic and frenzied, and while John Price had taught himself out of necessity to the point of becoming almost fluent in the gulag, the pace of the Russian was beyond any hope of comprehension. The Black Stars seemed so panicked, in fact, that Price at first gave thought to the possibility that their leader had in fact met his end, but then a quiet voice spoke up, and the incessant chatter came to a very abrupt end.

"Anatoly, Viktor, give me a sit-rep, over." Makarov said, to no reply. "Damn it, one of you, copy! Well, if you are still out there, good luck."

"I'm afraid they're going to need more than luck, Makarov." Price replied. Especially your friend Anatoly here."

"Ah, Price." Makarov said, sounding as if he had been expecting to hear that familiar voice. "What a most pleasant surprise. Now what could you possibly want with me, my friend?"

"I want to talk, seeing how nice it was the last time we did. And with you being backed into a corner and all…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, but the time for negotiations is over, Price. We might have been able to come to a gentleman's agreement in Afghanistan, but now you work for America once again. And I'm very, very disappointed in you."

Price poorly feigned an expression of regret. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But I'm giving you the one chance you'll get to stand down. You try and make a run for that sub and you'll die before you can even take your second step."

"Who said anything about running, John? _Do svidaniya_"

* * *

Pausing to smile at the words he had just provided his adversary, Vladimir Makarov eyed the whistling, apparitional form of the General Atomics Sea Avenger drone that had been patiently circling overhead like a mechanical vulture, knowing full well the machine could wipe him from existence with a precision strike at any moment the pilot saw fit. Only this pilot was doing all of his work from the comfort of his leather chair, far away from the dirt and dangers of the battlefield. Moving his eyes away from the spectator, Makarov was sure that despite the typically American ease and convenience the drone provided his enemies, the men back home giving the orders were going to need a body, and for that they still needed the efforts of old fashioned men like John Price. Even in a day and age where you could stalk and kill your prey without even being in the same country as him, the art of the warrior was not entirely obsolete just yet.

Turning away from his omnipresent observer, Makarov's thoughts returned to the Captain's ultimatum. With Lorvovsky dead, Anatoly clearly a lost cause and still no reply from Viktor he now had the difficult task of finishing matters personally, even if, as he still believed, that there was still one fatal flaw he could exploit in his opponent. While the Avenger served no real purpose other than to keep tabs on his location, there were other, more ominous threats out there. His predecessor had learned the very hard way that staying out of a sniper's line of sight is a very difficult task; no matter how aware you are of the cover your surroundings provide you. There were still plenty of Lorvovsky's men out there to keep them occupied, but with Price's sharpshooters being as good as they were, there really was no way of telling if they already had a bead on him or not. _Unless…_

"Zhirkov, go and rejoin your men!" He called over to the submarine Captain, who was still crouched nearby. "My fight is not your fight anymore!"

"What?" Zhirkov called back, bemused. "Of course it is! You want Vorshevsky dead as much as I, and I'm still offering you the perfect opportunity!"

"Not any more." Makarov insisted. "My situation had changed significantly, Captain. I have a personal debt to repay for Zakhaev. _Now, go…" _

With his last words Makarov's whole tone and demeanor took a radical turn for the sinister, and while his voice was in no way raised he made no attempt to veil a threatening tone. Then in a flash he was in a kneeling firing stance, and aiming straight between the eyes of his target before his would-be benefactor had any time for a reaction. Zhirkov looked surprised, but he shouldn't have been.

"…Now, go." Makarov repeated flatly. "Or I kill you, _Loyalist."_

At first, Zhirkov didn't respond to the ultimatum, merely staying frozen in a state of absolute terror. Whatever happened now, his fate was sealed, a case of damned if he did, damned if he didn't. He'd been moronic to place all of his bets on the Ultranationalist at the expense of his own crew like he had, but at the time he'd given up his hopes on Klossovsky, and didn't think there could possibly be anyone else Makarov would willingly trudge across the shitholes of the world in order to kill other than Boris Vorshevsky. He was wrong. The reality was that Makarov didn't need to go anywhere, as his deepest feud had now come to him.

"Fucking psychopath!" Zhirkov muttered under his breath as he finally leapt to his feet and darted back into the maelstrom of the firefight.

Makarov's sight was trained on the Captain's desperate movements until he was well out of view, only the thought of wasting ammo destined for his real enemies keeping him from pulling the trigger. Out of any sort of options and terrified beyond sanity, Zhirkov decided his best option would be to make a move for what he deemed the most likely position of his Loyalist sailors. They'd still kill him on sight, of course, but at least it would be death the hands of his own as opposed to being yet another casualty of the madness of Vladimir Makarov. But the Captain needn't have given any such thought to the matter, because he never got there.

Up above, the Avenger drone made one more looping pass overhead before suddenly cutting off from its usual path, the aircraft's Pratt & Whitney PW500 turbofan power plant turning from a distant whisper into a distinctly metallic scream as it raced for Makarov's location, a sight that made even the man that orchestrated the systematic slaughter of civilians at Zakhaev International's blood run a little colder. Moments earlier he'd been mocking the futuristic contraption, but now he apparently was about to be given a full, deadly display of the Avenger's capabilities, and there was nothing he could do but stand stupefied in awe, the drums in his heart beating at a furious pace.

The stealth UAV continued onwards on its new flight path until it faced Makarov dead-on, at which point it remained on a set course, almost as if the absent pilot wished to stare direct into the eyes of his victim despite not having the privilege of attending the hunt himself. While he remained standing firm at first, Makarov finally lost his considerable nerve and made the decision to make a break for it, racing off in the opposite direction Captain Zhirkov had gone. Making headway for the relative cover of a large stone boathouse, Makarov knew that if the drone wanted him dead, that was how it was going to be, but he was at least going to make the man in the leather chair work for his living.

The fatigue caused by the events of the last few weeks meant he wasn't quite as fast on his feet as he used to be, but it wasn't going to stop him running. But as Makarov reached approximately the halfway point between him and the boathouse, A roaring bellow echoed around him as the Avenger let loose the first of its arsenal, an AGM-114 Hellfire II guided missile that streaked across the port, followed by a louder boom as the missile engaged secondary thrust as the target was acquired, now only seconds from reducing whichever unlucky human being the man watching and controlling the weapon's flightpath chose to little more than a fine dust.

As he moved, Makarov had to fight his instincts, forcing himself from looking up at the descending missile. If, as he feared, he was the intended target, right now his killer would be staring at him through a computer screen via the Hellfire's inbuilt camera, hoping that America's most wanted terrorist would stop and stare just before he was removed from creation, probably followed by much whooping and cheering from the high command. But he wasn't going to do that. Accepting he wasn't going to make it to the boathouse, instead he threw himself to the ground in the longest leap he could possibly manage, covering the back of his head with his hands as he landed, in the vain hope that the missile would somehow veer off course. Only when the impact finally came, Makarov heard the great thermobaric blast as it thundered and echoed around, feeling the very ground quake under his body as the heat of the shockwave began to rush over him, fiery debris already starting to rain down from above.

"Makarov!" A distressed voice cried out. "Makarov, are you alright?"

Coughing as he brought his breathing back under control, Vladimir Makarov slowly raised his head to see a group of Black Stars sprinting to his aid, still coming to the realization that somehow he was still alive. On first appearances, it seemed it was the hapless Zhirkov who had in fact been the real target, the United States Navy apparently cleared to remove any enemies from the area that's weren't the high value targets. While this was no time to count any blessings, and the possibility of in fact being a case of mistaken identity simply could not be ruled out, Makarov couldn't help but smile as he felt that intoxicating rush of power that can only be gained from treading so close between the fine lines of life and death. He hadn't said anything about running, but now there was no more time for hiding.

"I'm fine." He said, reaching into his pocket and producing a small handheld touch-screen GPS. "No, I'm better than that."

* * *

Even the lurid fluorescent green hues of Ozone's night vision couldn't stop the concrete labyrinth of Murmansk from being the morbidly oppressive stain on the fabric of human civilization that it was. Perhaps it would be befitting then, that such a dismal excuse for a locale would be the final resting place of such a dismal excuse for a man as Vladimir Makarov. But that was only if they lived, and he died.

Failure was the last thing on the Canadian's conscience as he navigated his way around the endless, identical stacks of crates and containers, leaving no shadowy corner unchecked, no creak of corrugated steel nor clang of metal chains in the wind left ignored. He'd made good progress against the Black Stars, but these were still more than formidable enemies, and they'd use every single trick their vast military experience had taught them to bring him down. As point man Ozone was the eyes of the team, and thus it was his responsibility to keep his people from falling right into the heart of an ambush, which in such a hall of mirrors as this meant almost certain death. If any creeping thoughts disrupted his focus now, the outcome would be precisely that.

Ozone rounded a corner only to be greeted with the kind of sight he hadn't quite been expecting. A single Loyalist Naval Infantryman was knelt in the shimmering pool of blood that surrounded two bodies, and was busy taking whatever ammunition he could scavenge from the dead men, as well as swapping his own service-standard AKM for the heavily field-modified equivalent that lay by one of the fallen. In his distraction, the Infantryman was so enveloped in his plundering that he had become completely ignorant to any existence around him, even with Ozone now standing less than twenty meters behind him. _Stupid bastard, _he thought. _A stupid dead bastard if it was anyone but me here now._

Had he wished to stealthily eliminate the man and continue on his way, Ozone's task would have been an undemanding one. But this wasn't another one of the petty arms smugglers, this was a Loyalist, someone he wasn't going to kill without going through every other option first. Even though this was one of Zhirkov's men from the submarine, the Infantryman was still a part of the group through whom he had experienced his redemption; the people that had taken him in, fed, watered him and nursed him back to health after he and the 141 had lost everything, This was a life he owed them.

Thinking fast, he took advantage of being unnoticed and slipped back to the cover from whence he came, very nearly tripping over a rapidly moving up Toad and Archer in the process, the American sniper silently mouthing an obvious '_What the fuck?' _at the seemingly bizarre actions.

"Watch it." Ozone warned. "I got a visual on a possible friendly."

"Possible friendly?" Toad replied, raising an eyebrow. "As in-"

"One of the Loyalists."

"Oh, right." Toad said, still far from convinced and still deeply frustrated at being held up. "You mean one of those same guys who came here in a goddamned nuclear sub for that psycho Klossovsky?"

Ozone's face creased with dismay. "I also mean one of the same people who saved our fucking lives, Toad."

"Don't be ridiculous, these aren't the same-"

"We're wasting time here, people." Archer cut in, eager to avoid any more inner altercations, but equally desperate to keep on moving. "Make a decision, one of you, and do it now."

Before either could speak up again, Monotova's hurried voice suggested from behind. "Hey, let me try something. Just keep me covered, give me a few seconds and I'll talk him out of our way."

"I guess that's better than nothing, Lieutenant." Archer granted. "Go, get it done!"

She continued forward, bringing her latest Task Force acquisition, a Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle, to her shoulder. The sleek, black and heavily customized German variant of the Colt M4 was a substantial upgrade on her previous, aging Russian weaponry, but it was still no motive for indiscriminate execution. Much like Ozone, Natasha had found the previous minutes some of the hardest she had ever faced as a combatant, not through physical extremities, but through the conflicts brought upon her by a battlefield that not only threw Makarov's devoted commandos at her, but also the men of the _Kalyazin_, torn and divided in their own forlorn struggle for nothing other than survival. It went without saying that killing in cold blood was an extra step each and every one of the squad was willing to take, but it didn't stop the situation bringing up quite the conundrum, especially for a Russian. Pulling the trigger meant the likelihood of ending the life of a brother fighting for the same cause as yourself, but not doing so meant the high possibility of your own death, either from Makarov's men or a near-hysterical, trigger-happy Loyalist jumping at shadows. Whichever choice you made, it would, in some way, devastate you.

For Archer and Toad, there wasn't even a decision to be made. As long as it wasn't a Task Force uniform they were shooting at, it was open season all the way until they reached Makarov himself. While on the surface this was the unfeeling ruthlessness typical of professional snipers, it wasn't really the case in this instance. As Zhirkov was a traitor, his betrayal had doomed his men into becoming nothing more than human targets, and no matter what their own individual mindsets were- friend, foe, anything at all, targets were there to be destroyed. _So be it, _Monotova thought. _When we bring him Makarov's head,_ _Kamarov, Klossovsky, whoever it is that still has an ounce of sanity left, will forgive us. _

But here she had been gifted an opportunity, and with this one man in front of her, she at least had the chance to spare someone. It might be nothing more than an artificial act of morality before the slaughter, it was better than allowing herself and the good men around her to go the way of Makarov, Shepard, Vorshevsky, Klossovsky and even Price had gone. They could succeed in this mission and still manage to keep their heads while once intelligent, noble people lost their own in the fickle pursuit of petty retribution. All of them, even Makarov, had at some point been at least somewhat close to good people, with justified motives, but vengeance and conflict always does an exemplary job of erasing such qualities. Regardless, Monotova still had a job to do, and she would remove this man from her path, whether it be the right way, or the wrong way.

"_You!"_ She bellowed in Russian, finally gaining the full attention the Loyalist. _"Hands, now! Anywhere other than your head and I will drop you!"_

The Russian Marine froze on the spot, at first unsure on just why he was being kept alive, but more than willing to do exactly as he had been told to remain that way_. "Alright, alright! Just stay calm!"_

It was at that little moment Monotova saw what Ozone had seen earlier. For whatever reason, this man had been pilfering items from the departed, a set of dog tags still wrapped around and dangling from the fingers of one of his held up hands, glittering in the light, both shades of silver and crimson. It was this sight that made the Lieutenant ignore her better judgment and fail to resist the temptation to look down for a closer at the two dead bodies at her feet, and in doing so, let out a quiet but noticeable gasp in horror. What must have been an absolute fury of bullets had lacerated the individual to her right beyond any hope of facial recognition, but the mottled grey digital clothing he wore meant this wasn't even necessary. Forcibly snapping back to reality, she gripped harder on the HK, fixing her fiery, narrowed eyes hard onto those of the Loyalist. She'd been determined to spare him before, but she was very quickly warming up to typical Task Force tactics.

"_I am calm."_ She said sharply. _"Now, those tags, give them to me!"_

"_-NOW!"_

The Infantryman failed to speak but gave a single nod, and being quite aware of the growing group of people that now had guns drawn on him, smoothly and cautiously started to move his right hand away from his head. After what felt like an eternity he held his arm out still in front of Natasha, presenting the dog tags to her in the palm of his gloved hand. In the poor light provided it wasn't possible to simply read them where they were, so with heavy reluctance Monotova loosened the tight grip her left hand had on the fore stock of the 416, before she reached over and swiped the tag away. Holding the small metal plate up to the light, all she was given was the bitter confirmation of something she already knew.

"Lieutenant, what is this?" Archer called out. "Is this body Kirshov? What are you doing?"

She didn't answer, not out of any sort of disrespect towards her team leader, but simply because her mind didn't register the words he had spoken to her. Of course Marki Kirshov was dead, he'd been a suicidal fool to make a lone charge on Makarov and his men like he had. But it didn't stop digesting the scene of just how he had ended up from shocking her to the core. Just like Timur and Ivan Mashkov from the Loyalist camp before him, he was now just another pawn, willingly immolated in the name of somebody's grander scheme. Knowing this achieved nothing, other than allowing the most dangerous emotions of all to consume the psyche of a usually rational person,

"_You son of a bitch!"_ Monotova growled through her teeth as she pounced forwards, tightly gripping the back of the Loyalist's collar with her free hand whilst bringing her rifle up towards his neck with the other, so close the flash hider was neatly brushing against the skin. _"Did…did you do this? Did you kill him?" _

"_No, no I didn't, believe me!"_ The Infantryman begged. _"They killed each other!"_

"_With that many bullets? Bullshit! There was a third shooter here, was it you?"_

"_No, god, no! I-"_

"Just kill this fucker already!" Archer insisted. "Come on!"

"Wait!" The Loyalist turned his head to plead to the Englishman. "Look, where we're standing now, we're right where Makarov was during the meeting. I didn't see anything, but it must have been him who did it!"

"Oh yeah?" Ozone quizzed.

"Da! Look, I didn't see what happened, he's here, and he can't have gotten-"

"Yeah, alright." Archer cut in. "I believe you. Stand down."

Archer's words caused Monotova to loosen her grip, finally permitting the Marine to take a fast, relieved intake of breath as she stood down. Turning away from him, Natasha took a couple of steps back, before sharing a respectful but trepidation-masking nod towards the British sniper with Ozone. Archer, however, was quick to dismiss such time-wasting pleasantries.

"So if you're not against us, I guess that makes you with us." He said. "So what now, soldier?"

"I need to find my squad, if they're still alive." The Loyalist answered. "I can't get radio contact with any of them, but if they're out there, I need to inform them that you are our allies. And…uh…they're not soldiers."

"Marines? Well, In that case, they're definitely still alive." Toad assured, finally managing a smile. "But it's best if we all get a move on right now, Oorah?"

"Ura. I'll head right if you all head left. It should lead me where I'm needed, and should be a clearer path for you. And…thank you for not killing me."

"Whatever." Archer disregarded. "Just get out of my sight."

The Naval Infantryman was more than hasty with his departure, not only out of the sheer will to continue and find his men, but also because he was wary of whether his new 'allies' had in any way come to any kind of consensus _not _to shoot him in the back as he left. He'd heard of the work of a multi-national Task Force and their mission to bring down the Ultranationalists before, but most of the stories his men had discussed amongst themselves bordered on the superhuman and fantastical. While it was obvious to even a brief observer that combining such a diverse range of people was resulting in the inevitable inner troubles that such a hazardous and volatile concoction of ethics and processes cause, Task Force 141 was still just as formidable as the tales had him believe.

This gave the Loyalist hope that even though the team had all the stability qualities of the mixing of nitro and glycerin, they would have a similarly destructive power towards his enemies. Even so, there was no time to rest, not after only luck spared his life the last time he had turned his back. Continuing forwards, he found himself back well into the fight, the incessant thunder of burst fire, the trickle of casings cascading to the floor and the screams of the injured and dying reverberating off the stacks of containers and towering concrete structures that surrounded him, the sounds of warfare so garbled together that the battle could have been taking place a hundred meters to his front or one meter. But there was no time to go back now. Swallowing hard, he prepared himself for whatever may lie ahead, and turned the corner.

What greeted him was a sight worse than anything he could have anticipated. A single man, who could have been none other than one of Makarov's higher-ups, had only seconds previously committed a systematic and furiously quick rampage against a team of Zhirkov's sailors, and was only just beginning to drop a body to the floor as he approached. But the Infantryman had a chance; he was yet to be noticed. Without any kind of suppressed weaponry, he took the decision to switch for his combat knife. The kill had to be silent, if he drew attention to himself now; he might as well have let the Task Force execute him. Taking a couple of silent paces forward, he readied himself for the kill.

What he couldn't ready himself for, though, was his enemy being Viktor. Despite being caught well off guard, the struggle went entirely in the Ultranationalist's favor, and after a few abnormally swift moves from such a large man the Loyalist lay crumpled at his feet, a blade driven across the width of his throat. Withdrawing the knife, Viktor observed that the weapon was inordinately ornate for such a lowly excuse for a warrior, and as he ran his fingers along the edge of the bloodstained blade he noted a gold hammer and sickle had been engraved into the steel. It must have been Captain Lorvovsky's, and his victim must have pocketed it. _No respect for the dead, these capitalist dogs. _Viktor thought. _Well, at least it is now back in more appropriate hands._

Before he could dwell on the fate of the Captain any further, the sound of his observing Black Star team being mowed down by a barrage of Task Force fire rudely interrupted his thoughts. Makarov's lieutenant smiled darkly to himself at this, as rather than being unnerved or upset at what had just occurred, he now knew his true enemies had now strayed right into his path. Removing his older knife and sheathing Lorvovsky's, Viktor then took a firm grip on his Norinco bullpup assault rifle and noiselessly edged his way along the metal container to his left, carefully exposing his head to get his first view of just who his new targets were going to be.

Four men stood over the remains of the Black Star team, their backs turned to him as they discussed their what their next movements were to be, blind to the cobra waiting to strike from the darkness. No mistaking it now, they were the Task Force 141 members that had been stalking his movements for so long, evident with their advanced weaponry, curious pixilated-looking grey digital camouflage fatigues and black high-tech tactical armor and equipment. If that didn't make it obvious enough, each wore the subdued but noticeable flags of their respective countries on their shoulders. Before he decided not to push his luck and moved back towards cover, Viktor had given himself enough time to see that there was an American, a Briton, a Canadian, and to his surprise and disgust, a Russian. This knowledge served no real use to Viktor other than it made his first decision, of which to kill first, an easy one.

Only when the moment to strike did arrive, Viktor's attention was diverted by something else entirely. The Avenger drone that been discreetly circling overhead unnoticed for the past few minutes was now making its presence very much known, and the bird of prey was heading on a very different course.


	43. The Man in Black

**A/N: Ah, this was frustrating. I'd been trying to upload this for weeks and weeks, and I only just managed to do so. But finally, here it is. The penultimate chapter. Enjoy.**

**As always, muchas gracias to everybody who reads this, reviews, and puts up with the kind of delays that make even British Rail look good. Oh, and Modern Warfare belongs to Activision/Infinity Ward/Sledgehammer/etc obviously, not me.**

**Again, much love to the Call of Duty wiki, for without their information I doubt I'd have even gotten halfway.**

* * *

Despite still carrying out his orders as required, everything about his current surroundings ran very wrong notes in Commander Davidenko's mind, especially now that his compeer, Valentina Redinova, was busy in the business of getting more suitably kitted up for whatever lay in her way outside the relative security of the officer's quarters. Following the verification that she too was now under Raptor's command there was going to be no stopping her, but in many ways, Redinova's insistence on arming herself and fighting by Davidenko's side, even with more malevolent ulterior motives, was much better to him than having her out of his line of sight, watching over his every move from the faraway shadows as the unseen controller.

That being said, the thought of Raptor's voice now whispering in her ear was far from being a comforting one, and while Davidenko trusted the majority of the people on the ground that worked for that man with his life, the new sovereign of the Task Force was in his eyes just a case of new boss, same as the old boss. Yet another man so focused on wasting the entirety of his vast resources for little more than quick personal and patriotic gratification that he was allowing himself to be completely blind to the unforeseen repercussions his acts could bring upon the world in the near future. It was power-tripping men like him that were happy to lose so many servicemen in their missions to rid the world of the likes of Imran Zakhaev and Khaled Al-Asad, then become so preoccupied patting themselves on the back on a job well done that they failed to notice the rise of men like Vorshevsky, and sat with their feet up as Klossovsky's empire began to crumble down around him. Raptor was still a better man to deal with than that murderous old fool Shepherd, and far away from the danger posed by Vorshevsky still giving any orders, but that didn't mean he was a man to even start to trust in any way.

Davidenko also knew all too well that much as he had tried to convince his own men to the contrary, Redinova herself was a master puppeteer, the type that had reached up and cut the strings from above her own head many years ago. No matter which flag or faction she might fight under the banner of today, everything she did was not for them, but for her own longer-term desires. While Raptor might believe he could make himself the one and only to hold the leash on such people, it only ever went as far as the wealth of promises he could keep them. Once he fulfilled his guarantee to grant Redinova her retribution against Oleg Greyenko, all that paved the way for was for her to perform a u-turn of allegiance, and could once again take a comfortable seat of power before Vorshevsky even realized anything was amiss, now with that meddlesome General to block her greater plans no longer.

But that ruse seemed far too predictable; Davidenko knew all too well that if there was anything he knew about Redinova's personality traits, it was that predictability and invariability were most certainly not parts of that list. At least with her under his watch, he could in some way keep this woman in check, in the way Raptor only wished he could. But as he looked back at Redinova, Davidenko could tell he was not the only one with these reservations, as on the surface his own actions appeared similarly selfish, hazardous and manipulative, and the more he put thought to it, the more he put consideration to whether or not he actually had been acting in that way all along. A lot of suffering has resulted from his plans. Was it all just another vacuous game played by a man, possessed by his own ego, who wished to be God?

The Commander was quick to shake off this foolish rumination; both as the work of Redinova's typical mind games and also because at this point in time, thinking that way about yourself could show visible weakness, and that would be nothing short of disastrous. Blinking hard to tear himself away from the dangers of his own mind back to the correct subject of his focus, his weary eyes were now back on Valentina as she slotted a well-used looking OTS-33 _Pernach_ pistol into her thigh-mounted drop-leg holster, pausing before continuing any further to look back at the watchful Davidenko with a very disapproving glare.

"I've held up my end of our deal to this point, Gavril." She said. "But much as it would please you, I am not going into any combat situation unarmed. We work as a team now, understood?"

"Of course." Davidenko shrugged sullenly. "I wouldn't dare to dream of asking that of you. Much as I know that you appreciate a challenge. Just remember which side you've decided to be on this week if you really have to start shooting."

"Coming from the man who had the brilliant idea of a Makarov-Klossovsky reunion, I will take that as quite the compliment." Valentina's rasping hiss of a voice was laced with venom, but she soon reminded herself, reluctant as she was, to moderate her animosity. "But I digress. We've got to go meet up with your lovely Loyalist friends now, so let's be the professionals that we are and just get on with that, shall we?"

"Yes, let's."

"_Good."_

Looking away to ignore the ever-pervasive presence of her agitated companion, Redinova continued with her hurried pursuit for a primary weapon from the lockers, before withdrawing an Izhmash AN-94 assault rifle, which had been suppressed along with having a scope fitted to the typical BP-02 rail mount. A brief inspection was given to the Akaban, and after Valentina was left moderately satisfied, she threw the cordura sling of the weapon over her shoulder. Closing the locker, she then waved for Davidenko to at long last get back up to his feet, as if he needed the permission to do so.

"Right, we'll rendezvous with Kamarov and Klossovsky at the loading bay of this facility," She explained. "Seeing that we're going to require a damn fast and reasonably stealthy getaway from here, I'd say it's the best place possible for it."

"And you know how to get there?"

With that question, Valentina sighed a lengthy sigh before she spoke, knowing the reaction she would receive well ahead of its inevitable arrival. "Yes. There's an elevator-"

"Oh, now that's just wonderful_." _Davidenko groaned. "What's waiting for me there, then? You got some blades concealed in your boots, or maybe just a good old-fashioned garrote?"

"No. There's just an elevator."

"There aren't any good old-fashioned stairs going there?"

"_No_. Well, unless you really insist on taking the long way around._ Which you won't."_

As if dealing with a stubborn, spoilt child, Redinova rolled her eyes in vexation and moved her way uncomfortably to the door. Before she exited, though, she seemed to have misgivings about maintaining Commander Davidenko in such an unsettled condition. After all, if worst-case scenarios did eventually occur, she was going to need someone to provide her support and watch her back, even if it really had to be him. As she curled her slender fingers around the handle to the door, Valentina paused. Unsure of what words she could possibly say to him that would not entirely infuriate him further, instead her frosty eyes fixed onto him briefly and blankly, to an equally blank response. Then, ill at ease, she looked down at her feet, shook her head, and threw the door open before leaving the room as quickly as she could.

Davidenko, still not wanting to appear too desperate, decided he would make her wait a while. Taking two slow steps in the direction of the window, the once cold-blooded man found himself blocked from going any further, not by a physical wall, but the personal, mental boundaries he had set. He couldn't let himself see what had happened to his people without actually being down there, the very thought of it sickening him. He now stood frozen, and found himself startled at how isolated he suddenly felt in a room without Redinova's presence. Not because he was slowly and begrudgingly warming to the idea of having her now as something indistinctly resembling his ally, or so he told himself, but because without anyone around him he was now trapped, suspended in another limbo-like state of absolute powerlessness. There was little he could really do now outside of remaining where he was, the fate of everyone and everything around him well out of his grasp, or follow her into the unknown, and embrace whatever it was that lay ahead. With only one of these options being at all viable to a man like him, Davidenko exhaled deeply and cast every lingering doubt aside.

* * *

The advancing echoes of clattering footsteps was not exactly the most infrequent of sounds in the control room of the _USS John C. Stennis_, but to a man like Raptor, who had become intuitive through experience, there was a very noticeable difference between the haste of the approaching march of those who were there to supply information and receive orders, and that of those men whose attendance meant something altogether more hostile. In this instance, it was almost certainly a case of the latter.

He and White House Chief of Staff Jared Boone both rose up from their chairs and turned in unison to face to large group of men that had now entered the room, all making an obvious beeline towards the two, and led by a none-too-impressed looking Lieutenant Michael Carver of the United States Marines. A similarly tumultuous Ranger Sergeant Foley, SAS Leftenant Jamie Mercer and their men flanked Carver on either side.

"Raptor!" Carver called out. "Sir, if I may, I have an issue to raise with you."

"Do you, Lieutenant? Raptor replied. "You're always welcome to talk with me about anything. What might it be?"

Carver stepped forward from the others; his ever louder breathing a deep, guttural snarl as he just about fought back the feral temptation to lash out physically at the man who, in his eyes, had been playing him for such a fool. With the presence of Boone, the one individual here that could overturn the decisions that had already been made, he also had to watch the words he used as well.

"I think you know full what that might be." Carver said. "John Price. You're giving him his freedom, are you not?"

"Yes, I am." Raptor replied, sure not to raise his voice but still more than intent on standing his ground. "Price's work has been exemplary up until this point, and God willing, today he's going to be responsible for the very operation that turns the tide of this war."

"And which war might that be, sir?" Carver fumed. "We both know the Russian rebel troops are starting to circle the capital as we speak…and we should be backing them up with the might of our full military invasion force, which we're not."

"Lieutenant Carver, I've already spoken to you as well as countless others about why we are _not_ launching a full scale attack against the Russians. If this is why you feel the need to accost me-"

"No, sir, that is not the fucking reason!"

Carver all but screaming in Raptor's face earned the fleeting blink and flinch of a reaction he had been hoping to receive, but his swiftly collapsing composure only really succeeded in motivating Foley to step forward and clasp his hand on the Marine's forearm in a silent attempt at calming him. For the most part it worked, as it at least made Carver take a step back for a moment to gather his thoughts, leaving the Ranger to try and reason with his aghast-looking commander.

"I hope you can understand why the Lieutenant is acting in such a way, sir." Foley said, his own voice not exactly a pure example of calm, but he was managing. "But the fact of the matter is, you've been keeping it from us that even if this all ends the way it should, you're going to be freeing a man who is, let's face it, a war criminal against the United States."

"What war criminal? You mean-"

"Who do you think we mean, huh?" Carver cut in once more. "I don't know if you were there in the Gulf five years ago, but I'm sure that if you were, then you should know all too well that it ain't a very wise decision to put your trust in men who play around with nuclear warheads like disposable toys!"

Raptor sighed. It was all he could truly offer as his response. Carver was right, of course, that Price had been unprecedentedly reckless and haphazard in his ever more extreme and unpredictable actions, and while he was indeed responsible for more friendly casualties than was worth putting thought to, the harsh reality was that the man had saved far, far more than he had destroyed. Did it make him a war criminal, not just towards the Russians, but also his own allies? Maybe. It was not something Raptor wanted to see happen again any time soon, but he knew that what he really needed was radical men like that, ones who had what it took not just to serve and sacrifice for their country, but to be undaunted by making the kind of choices that even he could not possibly comprehend. Telling this to the Marine, the survivor, however, would not serve anybody any good whatsoever.

Raptor hadn't been in the Middle East on day of the nuclear attack, but he had been one of the first to volunteer afterwards to attend one of the many makeshift medical and decontamination facilities, centers much like the one the Lieutenant had been kept at for the best part of a week before he and what remained of his team were allowed back home. But even months after Carver's all clear and departure, convoy upon convoy of flatbed trucks could still be seen heading backwards and forwards into what remained of the city, their cargo contained in ominous yellow Hazmat bags but the contents remaining all too obvious. In a way Raptor had always considered the lucky ones to be those in the back of those trucks, those that had died either instantly or a least relatively briefly after the blast. While tens of thousands of people had died on day one, not just US Forces, but also local insurgents and the unfortunate civilians caught up in Al-Asad's mindless chaos, the lingering curse of radiation would continue to silently snatch away more and more lives with every passing day.

Indeed, the nuclear warhead was never going something to be taken lightly, nor was it something that could be used as a back-up plan every time America found itself backed into an uncomfortable corner. The next time some renegade type on either side was so flippant with the usage of such a thing, the result would be almost certain full-scale worldwide destruction, and for Raptor it took a lot of wrangling with his own conscience, not to mention those of his most trusted people, the various military advisors, politicians and even NASA, to get Price back on the 141 as opposed to having him immediately arrested. But to gain the trust of the men Shepherd had betrayed, the men he would use to destroy America's enemies, he could not afford to portray himself to them as yet another turncoat. And he wasn't about to start doing so.

"I know you think I don't understand." Carver continued. "The little footsoldier never does, does he? Well fuck you, I understand, and so powers even higher than your own. See, I don't think we're the only ones you've been keeping a few secrets from, are we? I think-"

"My good friend here takes orders directly from the President, Lieutenant Carver." Jared Boone intervened. "And as far as I'm aware, you take orders directly from him. We all know what you've been thorough, son, and the United States owes you a great debt for what you've done. However, Raptor is your commander, and you should treat him with the respect he deserves, no matter what path he chooses for you."

"Sorry Mr. Boone, but that's where you're mistaken. Mercer?"

The bruised, disheveled yet intensely proud SAS officer stepped forward, stood straight and cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Raptor, much like you I'm afraid I've been keeping a few things secret. "

"Oh, really? Do tell."

"Alright." Mercer replied. "I neglected to mention that Trooper Bishop has been working alongside my good friends at the SIS, who in turn have been passing all of his observations on to your good friends at the CIA."

"I knew that already." Raptor shrugged. "I'd expect them to be keeping an eye on us, and as I have nothing to hide, I see no problem with that."

"You might now. Bishop found, as I too had seen from my experiences, that Captain John Price should never have been allowed immediate membership of Task Force 141 following such a considerable term of incarceration, torture and possible re-education at the hands of the Russians. No psycho-evaluations were given, or even suggested after his release. Do you not find that in any way bizarre?"

"No." Raptor frowned, irritated at the SAS man's blatant showing of disrespect. He had almost expected it from Carver given his experiences, but he had never expected Mercer to become such a firebrand, and had hoped for more in terms of loyalty towards Price from a fellow officer of the Regiment. "I know the man, he was always going to take whatever the Russian could throw at him. Not to mention he was in a good enough mental state to save your ass in Monaco_ and_ Russia, wasn't he? I don't remember you having any misgivings about him back then."

"Bloody hell, do you think I'm enjoying this?" Mercer dismissed, looking away to avoid Raptor's piercing gaze. "True as what he's done for me might be, these failures still resulted in an event that could have plunged us into nuclear war had fate dealt us a different hand."

"It didn't."

"_It didn't? God, how typically arrogant." _

The response was not that of the British officer, but it was from a voice Raptor knew all too well. An otherwise indistinct man stepped forward from the ever-growing crowd of personnel that had gathered behind Foley, Carver and Mercer. Eric Callaway was that man, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency's National Clandestine Service and the one person other than the President who could, if he saw fit, usurp Raptor's seat of power no matter what Boone said or did otherwise. Callaway was in his early fifties, slim, and as well groomed as his sophisticated Californian accent would suggest. His bright, alert hazel eyes seemed more suited to a younger man, but his hair, now more grey than the light brown it once was, revealed his true age better.

Eric Callaway had been the architect behind the Marine and Ranger insertion into already battle-scarred Russian cities, seeing his assistance towards the Loyalists and Raptor's Task Force as a way of feeding his most battle-starved of soldiers, at least temporarily, as well as getting some true intelligence on just how bad the situation was getting for the retreating Ultranationalist government. Should this day come to pass, the day where his waiting men would be granted their invasion, and granted their revenge, this was information he was going to need. Today would be only the latest in a long line of Callaway's disruptions with Raptor, but this instance would easily be the worst timed.

This time, however, it was blatantly obvious that the NCS man already had his proxies in place and his little coup d'état well planned out in advance. With John Price, he had his perfect excuse to execute it. Dismayed, and knowing all too well he had been played, Raptor's shoulders slumped. He had now only just come to the realization of what the greatest flaw in his plan had been, how in his tireless attempts to appear as a truthful and trustworthy figure to the people under his command, as well as the Russian resistance fighters who supported them, he had turned one too many blind eyes to acts by his men, the ones which believed the only path the victory was total war between the two superpowers, to undermine his leadership. In the end, they had turned to another man to give them the war they truly wanted, and it had come from those Raptor should, but never dared, to have suspected.

"Chief of Staff, I'm afraid our good friend here can no longer be trusted with the task he has been set." Callaway said. "I've just this minute spoken with the President. I think you should too, because he sure didn't like what he heard. He agrees with me that the risk of another nuclear emergency, especially so soon after that unfortunate event at Petropavlovsk, is something we simply cannot allow to happen. Raptor here letting loose the very man responsible for that event, in the radioactive dump of Murmansk of all places, raises the threat of a repeat performance substantially. We are all in real danger here, gentlemen."

"I can't argue with that." Boone admitted. "But Mr. Callaway, what is going on in Russia right now simply cannot be jeopardized."

"Right now my men are nearing their objectives." Raptor attempted to insist, well aware that any words he said now were to fly right over Callaway's head. "The only danger here is that you intervene now, and allow Makarov to slip through our net!"

"Oh, don't worry about that. Now matter what else happens today, Vladimir Makarov is not leaving Murmansk. I guarantee that."

"If you want to guarantee it, Eric, let me do my job and stay well out of my way."

"That's what I'd really like to do, if you let me." Callaway's eyes flicked back over towards those of a very twitchy looking Boone, the Chief of Staff's perturbed, helpless expression only continuing to empower the NCS Director. "Here's what we do. With your direction, your team continues onward with this mission as they would, and Makarov's death or capture will be accredited to them, as it should be. But once they succeed, it'll be my people that extract them, not yours, and once they return here, everyone else goes free, even Captain John MacTavish. But Price is mine."

Raptor bit his tongue hard. To anyone else in the room, Boone included, Callaway was giving him a more than reasonable ultimatum, the kind that shouldn't have taken a moment's thought to accept. But Raptor was not anyone else in the room, and no kind of deal would ever convince him into becoming a turncoat. It was this belief that was going to get him removed from his position of power in a matter of moments, if that; so now his thoughts had to already turn towards how he could possibly execute a contingency plan without Callaway, the NCS, his own people from STRATCOM, or anyone else he'd forgotten about finding out. The war he'd been fighting so hard to prevent now looked even more likely than ever. But he still believed only he could stop it.

"Fuck you, Eric." He said, as flat and stoic as ever, the hum of hushed voices all around him rising and Boone covering his face with the palm of his hand as he did so. "If you want my Task Force, even just one of them, you're going to have to take them from me."

"Shame." Callaway said, uniformly yet sarcastically. "Fine then, if that's what you want, that's exactly what I'll do. Private Ramirez, secure Raptor and take him to the MPs at the detention facility for the time being. Do it quick, though, we can't waste any more time. While you're at it, for God's sake find out where Vasily Vorshevsky is and ensure he isn't allowed to wander this place alone. I don't want his hands on any American equipment and I sure as hell don't want him listening in on any American conversations."

"Yes _sir_." The Ranger obeyed. "We'll get it done."

"Good man."

Raptor, and the rest of the room for that matter, remained silent from then on as Task Force 141's leader was marched ignominiously out of view, the Private on one side and Carver on the other. But Callaway, already far too embroiled in thoughts on just how he was going to clean up this apparent mess, didn't even watch on as his apparent victory was at hand. A few minutes before he had 'attempted' to talk down Raptor, a Navy Avenger drone under CIA direction was already entering Murmansk Airspace, with three HH-60 Pave Hawks set to join it in approximately twenty minutes. If Makarov was somehow still alive that that point, it didn't matter, as that little problem would very quickly be addressed.

"Sunbird 1-1, the sky is all yours from here on in." Callaway informed the Avenger's absent pilot over the radio. "I'm pleased to announce that the mission is a go. Do you have Makarov identified?"

"Yes sir." A disembodied voice answered. "I've been watching that motherfucker for the past few minutes, and I'm looking right at him now. Just waiting on your orders."

"Good. Now I don't want you to kill him, Sunbird, but I want you to make it easier for those ground troops to do so. You see any possible hostile outside of his kill radius and you are cleared to fire. Understood?"

"Roger that sir. This'll be quick."

* * *

The war cries of an AGM Hellfire missile as it tears onward on its unstoppable collision course towards its target, in this instance the hapless Captain Zhirkov, are as deafeningly loud as they are horrifying to the soul. But to a Western Special Forces operator in the modern world, the use of drones as a platform for these fearsome weapons had become so mundanely day-to-day that it had now become little more than another background noise to be blotted out.

Understandable then that Captain John MacTavish put very little, if any thought to Sunbird's circling Avenger, and still kept it out of his mind as it opened fire overhead. Instead, his full attention was with the man at his feet, a man whose life Makarov had essentially given up to them through his own predictably dogged refusal to surrender, the extremist apparently believing he'd have another miraculous escape like he did from Shadow Company in Afghanistan, or band his men together to still somehow defeat his overwhelming enemy in combat.

Whatever happened now, there were to be no more attempts at bargaining by either side, and as if there was even any real doubt about his fate before, Anatoly now knew he was no longer of any use to the SAS men, and barring anything less than divine intervention, his death was fast approaching, and he was all too glad about it. Not just because he had accepted that the time was always going to eventually come where he would have to sacrifice himself, but also because he truly believed that even with these odds, Makarov would somehow find a way to endure. The abandonment of one of his most loyal followers wasn't him acting out of disrespect. Oh no, continuing the fight without him meant it was the complete opposite.

"You're wasting time, Captain." Anatoly told the Scot. "What are you waiting for?"

Finding himself unsure of what to do next for once, MacTavish turned away for a moment to face his mentor. But as Price gave him the sole emotionless nod he needed, Soap knew that while he had found a more than a modicum of respect for Anatoly's rather familiar sense of loyalty towards his leader, there was only really one option for him to choose regarding his demise. Only this time things would turn out not to be quite so simple.

As MacTavish raised his pistol to Anatoly's forehead, he found the ground beneath his boots begin to quake, and as those trembles quickly became more violent tremors, his ears filled with the piercing screech of the AGM missile's howling thunder as it echoed, reverberating around the metallic clattering of the containers around him, the sudden, and the rising fear the impending danger of the friendly missile caused brought out his first mistake. He hesitated on his trigger. His second mistake came shortly afterward, as the cacophony naturally forced both he and Price to turn their heads skyward, the once dark skies now beginning to fill with a blinding white light, to see just how close the blast was going to be. Even if it was just for a split-second, it was time neither of them should have given to Makarov's man.

While it wasn't quite the divine intervention Anatoly had been praying for, it was pretty damn close. Whilst he was still more than happy to die for the brotherhood, the drone operator had now inadvertently given him a second, and much more desirable option. Now he could still survive yet, and better still, there was even the opportunity to end the lives of those two men Makarov had spent so many long years hunting down. It would be a shame for Vladimir not to do the job himself, but he would get over it with Vorshevsky still alive. Short as the time the Special Air Service men spent distracted was, Anatoly spent it well.

Just as MacTavish realized his mistake, forcibly ripping the center of his focus away from the Avenger, the Russian made his move. He gripped and twisted Soap's right arm just as the SAS man squeezed down on the trigger, and with a twin _whump_ two suppressed shots from the USP .45 ricocheted harmlessly off the tarmac inches from Anatoly's head. Before either of the Captains could react further to this, he was already making his next move, keeping his grip on Soap's arm with his left hand, Anatoly jabbed as hard as he could into his attacker's throat with the right, and while his sapping strength meant he didn't quite do as much damage as he might have hoped to do, but the desired effect was still much the same. With a sickly wheeze, Soap stumbled backwards, losing his footing as his back collided with the steel wall behind him..

Anatoly now had to take the chance to jump to his feet, or at least make an attempt to before Price lined him up in his sights and shot in the head, and even that wasn't entirely necessary given how close the two men were. But just as the Russian turned to face the Englishman, it turned out neither of them got the chance. In his forlorn attempt to escape, Captain Zhirkov had managed to make it only meters from their position, and Sunbird's sheer enthusiasm to clear out all unnecessary targets meant danger close was now well on the cards, and with Eric Callaway now in the driving seat, there would apparently be no warning of it. While still well out of the actual kill radius, all three men were still thrown into the air nonetheless, crashing and tumbling against the freight containers that then became more and more unstable, before eventually toppling and collapsing into an enveloping tomb of smoldering, twisted steel.

Rather reluctantly, MacTavish's world returned to him piece by piece, firstly with his nostrils filling with that uniquely repugnant post-explosion aroma of a concoction of hot metal, the embers of timber, cordite and of course, roasting flesh. His eyesight, while faded and flickering at first, came to him next his as slowly but surely, feeling also returned to his fingertips. He attempted to reach out into the darkness, but in doing so the pain, or more the realization of it, inevitably followed shortly afterwards, convulsing and surging through every nerve and muscle, Soap helplessly screaming out a hoarse, muffled yelp as his own body did its best to convince him that his fight was over, and to give up right here.

But to a man like MacTavish the pain was little more of a gentle reminder that he was alive, mostly at least, and that he had more pressing concerns to be on his mind than such fickle matters as possible life-threatening injuries. But before he could even bring any thoughts about Price's wellbeing or Anatoly's whereabouts to the forefront, he knew the first step would indeed have be to take an actual first step. The sheet metal that covered most of him was mercifully light, Soap making light work of lifting it off of him even with such exhausted strength as his.

As he heaved himself back to his feet, Soap fought desperately to force himself to keep moving on, continuing with the search for one of his dropped weapons, even with his weakened legs buckling and his breathing becoming more labored as every step felt like covering miles. Inevitably, after only making it only a few arduous meters, he collapsed down to his knees, his sight blurring wildly as he began the internal fight to keep his own consciousness. But just as he was about to black out, something made him snap out of it.

A limping silhouette of a man, close to him but too hazy and indistinct for Soap to make out any identity, emerged from a gap between the walls of flickering fire, clutching an injury to his left with one hand whilst also pulling and tightening his weapon's sling, so he could wave his rifle around at anything that moved with the other hand with a bit more accuracy. Unsurprisingly it didn't take him very long to see the Captain, the figure hauling his body into position, taking a few shuffles forward as he attempted to steady his weapon at his target, ready to fire.

**_Shit._** MacTavish thought. _So this is how it's going to be then, is it? Going out on my knees as an unarmed, pathetic man? _

Not quite yet, as it turned out. Out of the two this particular man was most likely to be, this was the one that would never shoot him. Upon the realization of who exactly was knelt before him, John Price lowered his rifle immediately, his instincts switched over from all-out attack to the health of his fallen comrade.

"Soap! Soap! You alright?"

MacTavish didn't reply to him with words. But that was only because he couldn't. Instead he stretched his arm out as much as he could manage, not for Price to lift him to his feet, but because things weren't quite as reliving as they at first might have appeared to be. As Price took a step forward, he looked rather quizzical at Soap's at first rather bizarre reaction, before it dawned on him that he wasn't looking for help, he was trying to point something out, and just as Price turned back to face it, a second figure burst forth from the ashes to face him right back. _Anatoly._

Of the three, it was the Russian who had suffered the least, and whilst still looking as bedraggled as the rest, Anatoly managed to move lightly and agile on his feet, having apparently shrugged off both his beat-down and the explosion with relative ease. But much like Soap, he was unarmed, leaving the playing field more level between him and Price should the older man get a bead on him. But it was Anatoly's speed advantage that would prove most effective, Makarov's disciple leaping into the air and pouncing onto his prey before Price had even the first glimmer of a response. Anatoly might have always held a dubious reputation among both the Black Stars and the allied forces of being the closest thing to a _'nice guy'_ Makarov's faction had to offer, but if anything this underestimation of his true character had played into his hands quite beautifully. While his temperament might appear more docile on first appearances, especially given the kind of individuals he had chosen to accompany, he was still a former Spetsnaz man. Another one of Kirovograd's most superbly trained killers, only now with his psychology twisted into that of a fanatical hardliner.

And now he had one of the men who had underestimated him so, John Price, more or less at his absolute mercy. Tackled to the ground, the SAS man now had no choice by to try and take the fury of punches the Russian began to land on his face, as one by one they turned his face into more and more of a broken, bleeding pulp, Anatoly only ever stopping to either land an vicious, excruciating blow on Price's shrapnel wound, or get his own snarling breathing back under control in order to continue the onslaught.

_Well, fuck this_. MacTavish's torn up constitution had been doing a sterling job holding him back up until this point, but enough was enough. He wasn't going to let mere physical limitations bar him from intervention any longer. Somehow, he would find the strength. There was no other way; he simply had to do it himself, as if he didn't, he would watch his comrade and closest friend be ripped apart and die a slow, agonizing death, before it was his turn to be snuffed out of his misery an utter failure of a man.

Coughing and retching as he fell onto his hands, Soap could only achieve little more than a slow crawl at first, Anatoly knowing he was now moving towards him but declining to acknowledge his presence as any kind of credible threat. He wanted to take his time with these two. For what they had done, they deserved to exit this world butchered like the pigs that they were, and once their followers saw the fate of their leaders, they'd never get that image out of their heads as long as they lived, no matter what the result of today's battle might be.

Instead, it didn't take long for MacTavish to earn his attention. Soap finally managed to somehow bring himself to his feet, his balance still nowhere near controlled, his breathing only getting deeper and throatier, but strength remaining in the bright blue eyes. Soap took a single step forwards, beckoning Anatoly on with his hand in an attempt to make him leave Price and face him instead, and after shaking his head in pity and rising to meet the challenge, Anatoly was more than happy to oblige him.

"So the young man wants to die for the old man, does he?" The Russian growled as he kicked Price's rifle out of harms way, just to make sure. "How honorable. Stupid, but honorable."

"You…you people wouldn't know the meaning of the word." Soap managed, using up much of his enormously lacking energy in doing so.

"Why? Because I'm not on your side?" Anatoly hissed caustically as he marched forwards, still only armed with his fists and a look of utter contempt. With MacTavish, he wasn't going to need anything less, or at least he didn't think he was going to. "You foolish little man. Too indoctrinated to see we're just two sides of the same little coin. You and I, we would both follow our leaders anywhere, wouldn't we? We'd do whatever they'd say, accept whatever they'd do and suffer any consequences in order to bring down our greatest enemy, even if that meant exile or death. Even our greatest enemy just so happens to be the same man, doesn't it?_ The enemy of my enemy_**-**"

"It doesn't work out like that, my friend."

"You're right." Anatoly said, pausing on the spot to smile a dark, malicious smile, blood still trickling down the sides of his mouth from the brutality he had received at the hands of the man he was now staring down, clearly relishing how he now had to opportunity to repay such deeds in full. "Yes, you've remembered what he said. It does cut both ways."

Anatoly's grin soon faded into a sneer as he surged forwards, not slowing down until he threw the most potent haymaker punch he could muster, fully expecting it to throw his enemy completely off his feet, with MacTavish likely not to ever get back up again. But the punch was unnecessarily sloppy, and a man who had let his personal feeling towards the hostiles get ahead of battlefield professionalism threw it. If Anatoly had taken his situation in the way he had always been trained to, both Price and MacTavish would not have had a chance. But he hadn't taken it like that, and now a chance was exactly what he had presented them with.

Now he had the surprise of his life on his hands.

* * *

Sixty seconds passed.

_**Blam**_. After all those thousands of rounds fired, all those clattering shell casings and spent magazines, all that smoke and sulfur, and all that crackling automatic fury, it was to be a single shot that stood out amidst the settling dust. Out of the ashes, after the hideous quiet following the mighty firestorm from up high, it was one gun, one bullet, one man that got his attention.

The recipient was not known to him, but none of that knowledge was even remotely necessary any more. As for a man like him, a man that had spent so many years on the world's battlefield with his fingers around such instruments of death, as a force for both so-called good, and a great deal longer for so-called evil, he could tell the make and model of just about any firearm on the planet worth mentioning by the sound of that one shot. This one in particular, he knew instantly, for it was from the one pistol he despised most of all. The 1911, certainly the best known handgun and quite possibly the best known firearm full stop, in the world. For over one hundred years, this cold steel .45 testament to the genius of the American gunsmith had served most loyally in just about every notable modern skirmish Uncle Sam felt compelled to throw himself into, whether it be against the fascist and imperialist might of the militaries of the axis, or the guerrilla tactics and ingenuity of the Asian communists.

On today's fields of war, though, the 1911 had finally become sidelined. A once go-to sidearm was now an embarrassingly outdated relic that was simply too old to be there, the weapon of a old-fashioned cowboy, not a brutally efficient solider of this new technological age. There was simply nothing better suited, then, to the single man Vladimir Makarov knew to be the owner of this particular example, the 1911 that killed Imran Zakhaev, the 1911 that had shattered his world with a single round once before. And so the young outlaw realized the old sheriff was somehow still alive, waiting out there somewhere for that one big showdown.

_I knew it, John. I knew we weren't to die until we met one last time._

As the Black Stars that crowded around him tried incessantly to demand some orders out of him, Makarov rose up, and remained ignorant of them. Instead, he stepped out into a small circle of dim light, stopped to look up at the Avenger above, the falcon now patiently circling as before as it awaited the commands of the falconer, and scowled.

_How dare you._ He thought. _How dare you even attempt to alter what happens here between us._

Maybe the conflicts that would follow today would be fought exclusively by such machines as this. But today, despite all their intervention, it was always going to be about two very human beings.


End file.
